


Pomegranate

by Blindpulse



Category: Far Cry 5, Far Cry: New Dawn
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Impotent rage, John has a Bad Time, Pining, Slow Burn, when i say slow burn i mean it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 84,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25877167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blindpulse/pseuds/Blindpulse
Summary: Deputy Stammos wants to be left alone. The local hillbillies and cultists just can't seem to wrap their heads around that. This crabby cop is getting a family whether she wants one or not.Mildly divergent Far Cry 5 with emphasis on the points of view of the Seed family.Everyone lives, but no one suffers any less than they deserve.
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, John Seed/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 121





	1. Prologue

There was nothing quite like summer mornings down in Holland Valley. Perpetually green and flowering for miles around with its wide pastures and rolling hills, the area was a settler’s dream. Uncharted mountain ranges, unbroken hiking trails, incredible scenery; it was sure to be a tourist hot spot should some internet personality reveal its secrets to the world.

Being as far out into untouched land as it was, however, the valley never received many visitors, and caught little attention. Technology out here still relied on the odd radio tower and landline phones. There were no mega corporations churning through the healthy livestock or depleting the nutrient-rich soil; just small, self-sustaining farms and businesses. The biggest settlement in the area barely held over a few thousand inhabitants. Fall’s End, the central hub, barely 3 miles across in size. One general store. One bar that doubled as a restaurant and cafe. One chapel. One tiny Sheriff’s department to watch over the entirety of Hope County.

The whole place was dinky, out of time, and it was likely that the economy around here would never see much growth with its tiny population and well-hidden wonders, but that was the beauty of it. Some came. Most went. Unless one was born local, or made a strong effort to become local, it was lonely living. Quiet. 

Deputy Stammos loved near all things about this place. Undisturbed in every sense of the word. She’d been one of the few new arrivals to fall for the promise of Hope County. The early morning dew on the lush fields. The late openings of stores. The crisp, clean air that smelled of spring water and pine and stone, at least before the sun’s harshness stirred up the daytime odour of manure. Birds and insects were free to call their morning song, uninterrupted by noise pollution.

It was a sanctuary, through and through. 

If only the local rednecks didn’t share her sentiments. 

Stammos had to stress the **near** perfection of Hope County in describing it. Had the buildings been empty, or had they been filled with inhabitants who weren’t on a first name basis with literally everyone else in the county, it might’ve achieved that label. Instead, they were filled with monster truck-driving, loud-mouthed, freedom-loving hillbillies whose interpretation of the US Constitution could be summarised entirely by _'Fuck You. I Do What I Want.''._ Worst of all, they were social about all of these things. The whooping, the hollering - even the habits of public menace, they seemed to find community in, and they seemed overly intent on indoctrinating her into their rowdy circle. They were welcoming. Smiley. Asked her about herself. Invited her places.

Nothing was perfect, she supposed.

Especially not Thursdays.

The street was bare that early morning, as it was most others, yet the Deputy maintained her practice of checking both ways, squinting against the cloudless glare before jogging across the road toward the Spread Eagle. 

* * *

Mary May was already behind the counter, setting overnight glasses on their shelves in preparation for the day’s patrons when the door squeaked open. She looked up at the Deputy’s arrival, offering a smile that lasted a second and wasn’t reciprocated.

“Mornin’, Deputy. Your turn on coffee duty today?” 

The small-talk wasn’t validated. Stammos peered everywhere around the room barring Mary May, and while she approached, the bar owner’s gaze flickered to the ceiling in irritation.

“Paper come in yet?” 

Mary May’s palm tapped a single copy of the _Hope County Chronicle_ , folded and unread atop the bar, and Stammos’s hand flew to it, immediately unravelling the neat newspaper and busying herself with its contents. They stood in silence for a moment before Stammos’s eyes stopped drifting over a page and crawled to Mary May’s. Her expression turned confused, expectant. Then, her eyes scrunched shut.

“Oh. Yeah.” Mary May’s previous question had only just caught up to her. “Yeah - shit, I forgot the order-”

A crooked smile crept to Mary May’s face, humoured. She pushed away from the bar and rinsed out the old machine sitting on the bench top behind her. There was no order to forget. So many years of working across the road from the Sheriff’s office ingrained in her the knowledge that every person there took milk and no sugar. There was no such thing as a cappuccino or a macchiato out here. The closest thing Fall’s End had to a titled coffee was a flat white, and that was served in a styrofoam cup.

“I’ve got it.” She assured.

Stammos simply nodded, turning her attention back to the paper. 

“Big day ahead?”

Mary May took a second to savour the look of discomfort on the other woman’s face, visibly struggling to find words to respond with.

“Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss.”

“Not one thing?”

No response.

“Sheriff always lets me know what’s going on, just in case I need to expect anyone to come in rowdy after getting told off.”

It was clearly bait, but it was enough to get Stammos’s gaze back on her again.

“Anyone in particular you’re worried about?” The Deputy asked, tilting her head. Mary May's hopeful mood soured.

Not the casual gossip she’d been looking for, nor the topic she wanted to approach. The short answer was yes, but Stammos wasn’t reading between the lines. Another Deputy - Pratt or Hudson, would’ve caught on and relayed the information without the interrogation to accompany it. A one-word response was all Stammos needed, but lately, even one word was too much to trust a stranger with. 

Mary May’s sudden pause in goading conversation didn’t go unnoticed, however. Stammos folded the paper back up, settling it under her forearm on the bar. On anyone else, the surface was elbow-height. On her, it was almost at her shoulders.

“Apparently Mr. Seed’s been messing with the hunting community. Going over to check in on him later - make sure he’s not causing trouble.” She announced, scratching at a scuff on the newspaper while Mary May, who’d now averted her gaze, twisted cups into trays just a little harder than necessary.

“Sounds like him.”

The reply was curt, but if there was any discomfort to signal, it wasn’t pursued. Mary May stacked three trays of coffee in total, sliding them toward the Deputy with a tight smile. Both had disengaged from the topic; Mary May out of conscious choice and Stammos out of preference to wince at the cups in front of her.

“You should really look into something more biodegradable.” She commented stiffly. 

“I’ll be sure to do that if you’ve got an extra $200 a week to send my way. ‘Til then, suck it up.”

The look they exchanged then was almost friendly. A tiny twitch of Stammos’s eyelid as she handed the office card to the other woman. 

“Sheriff’s office also likes to tip 50 percent.” 

“Not happening.”

Mary May sighed, ringing up the cost and handing the card back. “Fuckin’ tight ass.”

Cradling her arms under the stack, Stammos slid away from the counter, perching her chin atop the pile for added balance. She proceeded to fumble adding the paper to her clutch for a good 30 seconds and ultimately gave up seeking out comfort in an unsteady grip. It was only across the street. She’d make it so long as her journey remained on a perfect X-axis with zero jostling. 

“Well, see you later.” She choked.

“Jesus, let me get the door for you.” Mary May lurched.

“I've got it.”

The next 5 minutes of the Deputy trying to leave the building unaided would be some of the most socially excruciating minutes either woman had yet to experience.

* * *

“A fucking marshal? Are you kidding me?”

Stammos had barely set the coffee order down before nearly a dozen hands shot toward the haul, but otherwise, her presence went for the most part unnoticed amidst the heat of the discussion she’d walked into.

Hudson had bailed Whitehorse up against a communal desk; her superior holding up his hands in defence while she sipped aggressively from her cup. She looked outraged. Pratt, meanwhile, paced back and forth in agitation. Nancy sat in stunned stillness behind reception - the only one to break away from the tension to offer a quiet thanks to Stammos for the delivery.

“Christ Sheriff, are they expecting **us** to go in and do something about it?”

“I don’t know anything yet.” Whitehorse replied, voice calm in contrast to Hudson’s clear agitation. “There might not even be any action taken. God knows, that's what I'll be vouching for. All I know is some mention about a recording and that I’m expecting a phone call from the guy. I’ll know more this afternoon, and as soon as I do, I’ll let you know. This is just a heads up.”

“And what if they **do** wanna do something?”

“Then good!” Pratt interjected, halting his pacing for a moment. “It’s high time we took Joseph and his **family** down. He’s a psychopath. All of 'em are crazy.”

“We wouldn't have the high school if it weren't for them.” Nancy added quietly.

Hudson sipped louder, as if the volume would make her point for her instead of words. 

“I don’t like this.”

She turned away with a curse, and Pratt resumed his pacing.

Whitehorse looked to Stammos, who had been attempting to shimmy to her desk in the corner.

“Now that we're all weighing in - You got something you wanna say, too, Rook?”

“If we’re not talking about someone breaking the law, then it’s none of my business.” Stammos answered quickly, seating herself and booting her computer, studying the blank screen as if it were already on and covered in text to analyse. “Shouldn’t be any of yours, either.”

“Bootlicker.” Pratt muttered.

Whitehorse’s attention turned back to Hudson, who raised an index finger at him, fully anticipating what he was about to say.

“‘Don’t ask her what she thinks. She’s got no clue what these people are like. _‘Breaking the law’_. Violating human fucking rights, more like.” Hudson shot Stammos a hard look. “This is bad news, Sheriff.”

“Noted.” Whitehorse replied. “In the meantime, get to work. Rest assured, I will keep you all posted.”

His response was met with scoffs of varying nature, but no one in the building disregarded the Sheriff’s sincerity. He was steady and supportive enough to absorb the rants and vents of his subordinates, but the guy knew when to call it. He was a good leader and even Hudson’s temper could respect that.

The rest of the office steadily scattered, collecting their drinks and leaving for their desks, offices, and for dispatch. Flipping pages and clacking keys filled the silence. Stammos tried to make a point of fading into the environment by contributing to the office noises when Whitehorse wandered over to her desk. While she fixed her eyes on the painfully slow startup screen, the Sheriff leaned against the wooden surface until he had well and truly craned his head between hers and the monitor, forcing her to reclaim her space and give him the attention he wanted.

“It wouldn’t kill you to not be so cold.” He mentioned, earning a frown from his Deputy.

"I'm not cold." Stammos defended, biting her cheek when the man raised a brow at her. “Just wanna do my job.”

“And I appreciate that. But part of being a good cop in this county is being part of the community, and getting along with your team is a good start. I know it’s still early days, but making a few friends never hurt anyone’s cause.”

Stammos dug her pen into the table, avoiding his eyes. “Would’ve thought being the only Deputy to have my paperwork in on time would be what made me a good cop in this county.”

Whitehorse gave her nothing but a grunt, and she shrunk into her seat.

“I’ll try, Sir.”

That was enough for the Sheriff. Straightening out, he linked his thumbs into his pockets with a satisfied nod. He started back toward his office.

“Talk to a damn real estate agent, for Christ’s sake. High time you became a local.”

Stammos watched him disappear behind his closing door, huffing when it clicked shut. Her gaze flickered to Nancy, seated right outside the office, already watching. The woman offered a sympathetic smile, accompanied by a tiny wave. Stammos immediately looked away, ears flushing red.  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The sourness of Thursdays wasn’t only dedicated to stilted coffee run conversations. It was also the day of the week reserved for Stammos’s weekly visits to Seed Ranch. Local complaints about John, Holland Valley’s resident Seed sibling came by the dozen, and while most lacked legal grounds, the sheer number of accusations the community aimed at the man was enough to warrant regular check-ins. Typically, theft and harassment hit the top of the weekly tally, but despite all her visits, Stammos never found any evidence of stealing on his property. The harassment, though, she could believe. John Seed was a particularly forceful personality, especially when it came to his elder brother’s religious group, of which John carried out the role of Baptist. He was a preacher like Pastor Jeffries back in Fall’s End, but held none of the respect for boundaries that Jeffries had. Every visit on Stammos’s part saw her having to spend the following hour either disengaging from a moral argument with the man, or making up excuses to avoid attending his sermons. 

John (and by extension, his family) was one of those comparative newcomers who went to every effort to network with the locals. Stammos had been the opposite, and where she had succeeded for the most part in warding off the social advances of Fall’s End, John’s incorrigible, near-aggressive pushiness was where she faltered. An hour of strained, painful conversation per week. That was an entire 12 hours of discussion to date, and no visit was any less exhausting than the last. On top of all the religious fanaticism, the Baptists general disposition was particularly grating to the Deputy. He boasted superior knowledge of local jurisdiction, complete with a law degree that made him enthusiastically competitive whenever Stammos showed up at his door with a new accusation.

She did her best to keep up, but three months on the job and a few choice textbooks weren’t sufficient backup for stepping into the legal ring with him. 

The best she could do was dish out parking infringements, and when one took into account the dozens of attendees using the road as their own public parking outside his properties, forcing him to cover the bill for his followers was enough of a petty win to keep her going.

Pulling up to Seed Ranch, Stammos was met with a freshly-painted sign picketed at the mouth of the driveway: “ _ **NON-EDEN’S GATE BUSINESS, PARK ON SIDE ROAD**_.” Her jaw clenched, but private property was private property. Continuing around the bend, she caught sight of John’s own luxury-model dual cab truck, driverless, hanging half over the road. She parked with a huff and got out, shooting a comparing glance at her ancient Hilux, dwarfed by the shiny monstrosity. Compelled both by occupational obligation and bubbling rivalry, Stammos swiftly filled out a parking ticket and slotted it beneath his windshield wiper.

At least the forced ten minute walk along the driveway was a welcome stretch of quiet. Workers wearing Eden’s Gate logos on their backs tended to the tidy airstrip on one side of the gravel path. Some looked up to watch her pass, faces cautious and critical. None made an approach, but their presence alone was unnerving.

Stammos had yet to engage herself with Eden’s Gate. Unlike her colleagues, she made a conscious effort to stay well-away from their dealings and had zero involvement in their business so long as they were abiding by the rules, same as everyone else. She’d had a few run-ins back in her ranger days; one notable case having seen her confront the church’s head, Joseph, over his followers littering in the bush land and an angry reminder to respect the local fire guidelines. He’d been compliant with her demands, at least on a surface level, and from then on, many of the local follower ceased all attempts at interaction with her. 

Barring John, they left her alone, and that much she appreciated. They didn’t pry. They didn’t goad her into small-talk, and she respected that by maintaining absolutely no personal interest in them. 

The gravel beneath her boots turned to cobblestone as she neared the estate. The building itself was something of an eyesore; a wealthy city-dweller’s ‘smart’ take on a log cabin, upsized to proportions unacceptable for just one man to be living there. On top of the private airstrip, the property had a hangar, a tennis court, and multiple well taken-care-of yards and gardens that were probably reserved for private sermons or the odd wedding. She’d seen the inside of the main building a few times, but had forgotten entirely what it looked like that moment she’d stepped back outside. The place did, however, have a lingering smell to it. Something like rubber.

It took mere seconds for the double doors to pull open when the Deputy knocked. John Seed stepped out from between them; neat, slim, and covered in tattoos much too ugly for his paycheck to justify. His taste in clothing was expensive and mismatched, echoing his home. 

John beamed down at the woman at his doorstep, immediately pressing his palms against his thighs, leaning forward as if he were greeting a child or a dog. He did this every time. Granted, Stammos barely reached his shoulder when they both stood at full height, but this bordered on cruelty. 

“Deputy!” He chirped. “What a nice surprise. I’m afraid I’m in a little bit of a rush, so we mightn’t have much time today. Was there something I can help you with?”

Stammos’s gaze flickered to the outer wall of his home, lined heavily with large windows, every one of them angled to view the driveway. Surprise indeed.

She cut right to the chase. “Mr. Seed, sir, there have been complaints from several hunters across the county claiming that they’re been blocked from the elk, quote: ‘because John Seed made it illegal’. Thought I’d get some clarification on the matter.”

John’s brow furrowed, but his smile remained. “Ah. Well, I don’t appreciate people using my private property to hunt.”

“The greater Holland Valley area is classed as a state forest, Mr. Seed. I realise you own a lot of property in the valley, but that’s government land.”

“Which I bought. Which was sold to me for an amount of money in legal trade and which is now in my name, yes.”

“Have you got a paper trail to prove that?”

A pause. Then John’s smile sharpened. He stepped away from the door, gestured within and headed through the lobby into another room. Stammos remained near the front door, using his absence to take a gander at the trophy cabinet that lined an entire section of wall. Full to the brim with Eden’s Gate memorabilia.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess.” John’s voice floated into the room, prompting Stammos to look around. Save for the odd cardboard box or the neat piles of bibles that had been stacked on the dining table, the place was pristine. 

When the man returned, he returned with a modest stack of papers and held them out to her.

“Signed by the previous head of the parks department.” 

“This isn’t stamped.” Stammos responded, almost immediately. 

“The signature’s right there. Every page initialed.” 

“Yeah, by the previous head. There’s nothing here that suggests the actual current department approved this.”

“I don't think you're understanding what I'm saying.” John stepped closer, removing the papers from her grasp, voice clipping with annoyance. Stammos wouldn’t lie. It felt like an achievement. Of all things, she knew the local parks and how they were run. This was something he couldn’t argue with her over. The Baptist was typically so smarmy that just the hint of him losing ground felt like a win.

“I get what you’re saying, but until I see a stamp on that document, there’s no proof that it’s been even **seen** by any current government worker, let alone approved by a department...-"

"You're a better ranger than you are a Deputy." Came the next quip. Stammos ignored it.

"-...Until that happens, I’m going to need you to steer clear of the hunters. It’s still state-owned parkland.” 

John’s jaw clenched for just a second, but he recovered with an enthusiastic nod. “For now, at least.”

Always the last word.

“Well, that’s about all-”  
“Have I given you a copy of Joseph’s Book? I don’t think I have.”

 ** _THE_** word, now. 

Stammos backed up, and in response, John procured a bible seemingly out of thin air.

“You’ve definitely tried.” Stammos replied, already making her way back to the front door with haste. John was hot on her heels, chasing her out.

“Just give it a skim. Come on.” He pressed. “4.7 on Goodreads. I promise you, it’s worth it.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Seed - I’ll be going now-”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

The Deputy almost cracked a tooth with the force her teeth ground together at that.

“Weren’t you busy?” She halted momentarily to squint up at him.

John simply offered a chuckle, pulling the front doors shut behind the two of them. “Always happy to make time for the sake of God.”

The pace Stammos set was a near-jog by her standards, wishing nothing more than to escape the incoming assault of holy jargon that was about to rain down on her. John, however, kept up without issue, sauntering along casually with long legs while the much shorter Deputy scurried with the urgency of a startled rodent. By the 6 minute mark, Stammos accepted that John wasn’t planning on leaving her be, and slowed her pace, reluctantly giving in to the speech she’d been tuning out. 

“...-do you?”

Stammos blinked at John. “Come again?”

“Have faith?”

“In what?”

A polite breath of laughter came from him. “That’s a no. You should give it a try. Even for a lone wolf, community’s a healthy thing.”

As if to accentuate his meaning, John waved a hand at the workers who had previously regarded Stammos so cautiously. Their faces lit up at the sight of his greeting. All of them waved back, distant, scattered “ _Good afternoon, Father!_ ”s here and there.

Stammos grimaced at the sight. 

They reached the mouth of the driveway, and Stammos turned to bid the man goodbye, only to find that he continued on along the road, shooting her a knowing smile and tucking the bible he’d brought along under his arm.

“Speaking of which, a little bird told me you’ve been thinking about moving to the valley.”

Her eyes narrowed at that. “Who?”

“You **know** everyone in this county talks.”

A non-answer. Stammos responded in kind with silence.

“Any luck?”

“Not since you started buying all the land.”

John pursed his lips. “Land ownership won’t matter nearly as much when the Collapse hits. Why buy when Eden’s Gate has free accommodation in the area already?”

“Mr. Seed, with all due respect, don’t start this again.”

That only seemed to spur him on.

“Why are you so averse to listening? To engaging? How many many times have I offered you the word of Joseph? Welcomed you to my sermons?”

Stammos’s fingernails dug into her palms. God, he was aggravating.

“Better yet, how many times have you ignored my invitations? How many times have you denied yourself knowledge and company?”

“You’re pushing it.” She growled.

John scoffed. “Like a brick wall.”

Stammos approached her truck and opened the door with a painful creak. She moved to get in, but stopped short, turning around to fix John with an expectant look.

“So if the Collapse is coming and land ownership won’t matter, what’s the deal with the tennis court?” She asked.

“Is that envy?” John smiled, stepping around the door to retake the space she’d put between them. His free hand grasped the steel window frame and when Stammos sat down in the driver’s seat to avoid him, his posture followed, bending at the waist to loom over her.

“More curiosity.”

“Tell you what. After the Collapse, I’ll give it to you.”

Stammos snorted. “You going to botch the contract like you did the state park?”

The Baptist bit into his expression, somewhere between enjoyment and annoyance. “Old style. I’ll leave the keys under the mat.”

“How will I know when the Collapse hits?”

John was sneering now. With a hard push, he closed the driver’s side door with a louder bang than necessary. 

“Put it this way. You’ll probably be on fire.”

With that, he offered the bible once more through the open window, giving Stammos no other option than to take it, or drive away with the Baptist hanging halfway out of the vehicle. The pure victory in his expression when she tossed it onto the seat beside her couldn’t be contained. He looked gleeful. Stammos on the other hand, was drained.

“See you next week, Mr. Seed.” She finalised, starting the car.

John inclined his head, still relishing his win. He tapped the window frame, twice, rolling his jaw. “We’ll recap chapter one.”

“Get that paper stamped.”

Stammos turned the truck around and started back up the road, bound for the Sheriff’s office once more. 

She took off just slowly enough so that she’d be able to catch John in the side view mirror taking notice of the ticket on his car. Small as his retreating reflection was, the scowl he sent after the truck almost made that whole ordeal worth it.

Too bad that a week was way overshooting it. She'd be seeing him again much sooner than anticipated.  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  



	2. Game Plan

The Deputy’s blood pulsed through her ears, white noise ringing through her brain. Her vision twisted between pitch black to her left and flames to her right. Where was she? What was she doing? Her eyes rolled in their sockets, trying to make sense of what was happening. When looking around didn’t immediately relay anything to her brain, her next instinct jumped to using her other senses. She couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes. A pressure tugged hard at her shoulders like a sling, binding her, though she wasn’t sure what position her body was in. Heat bloomed from her left temple, and her nose was wet, dripping, but not in the right direction. 

She was upside down. How had she gotten upside down? That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Upside down was not right side up, which was the way it was supposed to be.

_“Sheriff? ...Earl?”_

Nancy? When had Nancy gotten there?

Something in Stammos’s skull seized when she turned her head. The throbbing in her ears deafened. White noise settled into static, and the crackling of fire, and the creaking of metal. Light began to return to her vision, but before she could go on finding her bearings, a pale figure crept in front of her. They leaned in, close enough that she could smell the plaque on their steady breath.

“Everything’s fine here, Nancy.” 

Male. Familiar, but not enough to place their identity. The figure’s voice and the movement’s of their jaws fell in and out of sync as they spoke.

Stammos fixed her concentration on the person in front of her. Their beard. Their hollowed cheeks. Their eyes, already trained on hers. Cold, sunken like the eyes of a corpse. She knew this person, and as her vision finally sharpened enough to identify him, she found herself with an overwhelming desire to not be conscious anymore. To fall back to sleep until he went away.

Cold fingers slid over her face, pressing hard, and it wasn’t until he’d pushed her mouth closed that she realised her teeth had been chattering. 

He leaned in, closer still. 

“I’ve seen you, ranger.” He murmured, holding her head in place when she tried to look elsewhere. “In my dreams, I’ve seen you. You arrived right when you said you would.”

Then, a second later, he was gone; pulling himself from the space and stepping through fire, away from her. Others gathered around him. Held him. Stammos didn’t know who. Her interest found its way to Hudson instead, who had at some point appeared by her side. Pratt. Whitehorse. They were there with her, all upside down. 

Hands tugged at them from beyond the dark, one pulling Hudson’s arm so hard that she wailed. Stammos had turned to Pratt and Whitehorse, expecting them to tell her to be quiet, but they were both gone now. Hudson continued to scream, held in place by her seatbelt while a half-dozen hands grappled at her clothes and limbs. She cried out for Stammos, but there was nothing her body would do to respond. Some part of her brain told her to reach over and unbuckle Hudson’s seatbelt for her - why was no one thinking to unbuckle her if they wanted her to move? It was only logical. 

Finally, Hudson was torn away, wailing as she slid into darkness and fire. Something gripped Stammos’s arm, and she felt momentarily glad that whoever had taken Hudson at least hadn’t forgotten to take her as well. Only they were pulling her in the opposite direction. She twisted in their arms. Tried to find some way of communicating to them that they were going the wrong way, but her numbed extremities did nothing to aid her. Her arms were slung across padded shoulders, her legs hooked locked into their elbows as they leaned forward. She fell against their back.

“Hold onto me. I gotcha.”

Another male. Someone she knew. Stammos had done as she was told, trying her best to hook her wrists around his neck while he stumbled through rows of trees. The stubble on his shaven head dragged against her burning face, and from that, she recognised him as the Marshal. 

Muted yells and barks followed after them. She had no idea what they were saying, but as the minutes wore on, everything seemed to grow quiet. The only sounds left were the rocks crunching beneath the Marshal and the ragged breaths escaping his nose. 

Relief warmed Stammos’s body. Her eyelids felt heavy. Heart beat hard and slow in her chest.

“Rookie, stay-...”

* * *

  
  
  
When Stammos came to, she found herself seated on the floor. Her eyes burned under the brightness of the Marshal’s maglite, and scrunching them shut squeezed tears down her cheeks. She grunted her displeasure and yanked herself away from the man crouched beside her, and the moment she did, the throbbing in her skull commenced its return. A stickiness all over her neck and shoulder tugged at her skin like dried glue when she shifted. 

Stammos squinted against the retreating sting, taking in her environment. They were inside a trailer - windows boarded up, loose ammunition all over the floor. Eden’s Gate symbols covered the peeling walls. When she turned her attention back to the Marshal, she found him sitting back, watching her. The right side of his head was plastered with dried blood.

“Thank Christ. You had me thinkin’ I was carrying a corpse half the way here.” He said, pushing himself up off the floor. He immediately began busying himself with piecing a rifle together on the kitchen counter.

“You got blood on you.” She commented, throat catching.

“All you. Cracked your head open during the crash. Stitched you up best I could, but you were running like a faucet.”

  
Stammos reached up after hearing that. Her fingertips brushed against gauze and padding and tape stuck to her temple. 

“We gotta move on, quickly,” The Marshal continued, “You were out almost a half hour already, and we’re damn lucky that every Peggie truck on the hunt has driven past so far. How’s your head?”

  
“S’fine.” Stammos grumbled, busying herself with stumbling to a stand and reactivating her shaky legs.

The Marshal closed the bolt on the rifle, eyeing her. “You okay?”

  
“ _ **Fine.**_ ”

Her thoughts raced at such a throttled pace catching up on lost hours that Stammos’s emotions had yet to come into play. Her brain was still trying to make sense of what was happening - trying to apply some kind of logic to the meltdown of that evening. 

The afternoon had felt so normal compared to this. Pratt and Hudson had been arguing all day over the Marshal’s arrival. The entire office had been up in arms when the federal agent announced he intended on arresting Joseph Seed _ **that night**_. Stammos had kept her nose out of the topic as per usual, and the others’ protests did nothing to the man.

The ride over wasn’t any quieter. Everyone by then, even Pratt had attempted to convince the Marshal to turn back despite his orders. Stammos hadn’t understood their increasing panic initially, but an odd pit had formed in her stomach when they passed over the Henbane river and by the colossal stone-carved head of the Father. From then, every minute that ticked by brought an increasing awareness that Stammos should’ve been paying attention when the office had discussed Eden’s Gate.

She recalled looking across at Sheriff Whitehorse between the slumps in debate and forced conversation. He was the steadiest character among them, and even he’d been sweating, staring into the middle distance while the Marshal bragged about previous arrests and how Joseph Seed would be in a cell within the hour. The Marshal had asked Stammos, the smallest and most junior of the Deputies, how much experience she’d had, and she made the mistake of admitting that she’d been yet to attend her first arrest. 

He’d grinned at her. Told her that her career in law enforcement was about to be streamlined. To follow him and that he’d show her the ropes. Whitehorse had never sent her a more cautionary look, and if the prospect of walking into their oncoming situation hadn’t made her want to leap out of the helicopter right then and there, the battle between both men for her mentorship would’ve been plenty reason enough.

The sun had set by the time they’d landed, walking through aisles of barking, caged dogs and armed followers. Stammos had never seen anything like it. Didn’t seem like any of her seniors had, either. Hudson had kept close behind and Whitehorse lagged up front, both offering the occasional hiss that it wasn’t too late to turn back. Stammos’s silence, meanwhile, once again earned her the misfortune of being in the Marshal’s favour.

Upon their arrival at the chapel that marked the end of the path, the man had stuffed his cuffs into her pocket and told her to be the first to head inside. That the cult wouldn’t be as threatened if the rookie was leading the party. She’d done as she was told, despite instinct crying out for her to hang back. She hadn’t stepped foot in any place of worship in over a decade, and pulling the door open deepened the pit in her stomach to a level of all-out nausea. 

Her gaze had naturally found the most familiar face in the room. Every candle and spotlight shining onto his brother’s preaching form in the centre of the room, yet Stammos’s attention snapped to John. He’d stood behind Joseph while the man carried on his sermon. He’d offered her a warm look when she slipped into the building, head inclining in acknowledgement and a crooked smile that took all but a second to evaporate into a glare when her colleagues had followed in behind her. 

Stammos couldn’t remember in as much detail what had happened after that, no matter how deep she dug. Just a residual feeling of guilt and fear. Then, as they left the chapel with Joseph in tow, overwhelming fear. The man’s followers had turned from threatening to hostile. Dozens of them had clambered into the helicopter when they’d strapped their Father in. The Marshal had leaned over Stammos when her hand had frozen over her gun, and shot the chest of a follower who’d attempted to undo her seatbelt. 

One man had crawled over the windshield, climbing up-

Stammos twitched, wrenched back to the current moment with a churn of her stomach. She sprinted for the kitchen sink and retched, heaving her lunch down the drain. Over her shoulder, the Marshal cursed.

“Rook, you gotta keep it together-” 

By the time he’d turned to her, Stammos was shivering. 

“Fuck. Hey.” The Marshal held his hands like he was attempting to calm a spooked horse. “It’s okay. I’m gonna get you outta here, alright? But you gotta work with me and stay out of your head until we’re clear of this. You wanna get out, right?”

Stammos gave a single nod, shifting away from the fingers he’d settled on her shoulder. 

The Marshal pulled away from her while she rinsed out her mouth, peeking through the boards against the kitchen window. “Car’s in the garage. Lucky for us, the owner left the keys. You know the closest city?”

“Missoula.” 

“Couple hours.” 

“The drive’s usually worth it.” Stammos huffed, tugging her phone out of her pocket. No reception. Odd. Usually the towers covered most of the county. Tragically, 4% battery. 

“I’ll fuckin’ say.” The Marshal replied drily, throwing her a glance. “Got anything?”

“No service.”

A hum. “Better shut it off til we get out of hick country and find some actual civilisation. Sooner we can call for help, the better.”

“So we’re stealing and disappearing into the night.” Stammos grunted, switching the phone off. “That’s illegal.”

The Marshal looked dumbfounded. “Are you kidding me with that shit?”

“I’m just saying, we should probably log the address so that the owners can be compensated for vehicle loss. It’d be unprofessional not to.”

“Will you shut the fuck up-”

** _BANG!_ **

A section of wall between the two blasted inward, throwing shot and drywall and sending both Stammos and the Marshal diving to the floor.

“THEY’RE IN THE TRAILER!”

Bullets followed next, rattling deafening holes through all sides of the trailer in a rocky line.

“Rifle!” The Marshal barked. 

Stammos slid her arm up the counter, fumbling to grip the weapon for a moment before pulling it back down to the floor. The Marshal bolted for the back door. 

“Cover me. I’ll bring the truck around.” He ordered. A silence on Stammos’s part caused him to whip his head around, scowling at the suddenly very pale Deputy. “Rookie!”

“I’ve never shot a person!” The woman hissed back, clutching the gun close. “Give me a fucking second!”

“Try asking _**them**_ to give you a fucking second! Jesus, just shoot ‘em!”

With that, the Marshal tumbled out of the trailer, leaving Stammos alone to make her choice. She followed after him, creeping around the rear side while gunfire continued to hail into the home from the front yard. They both stopped at the corner, peering around to find three Peggies; two unloading clips into the trailer, and one standing by, shotgun in-hand. 

They paused there for a few seconds; Marshal devising his approach, and Stammos devising a way to avoid doing the unthinkable. 

“Keep out of your head.” He warned in a whisper, feeling her hesitation. “Keep me alive, and you’ll get outta here.”

The Marshal sprinted across the yard and into the open garage, his footsteps attracting attention within seconds. Shouts and redirected fire followed, bullets whizzing past past the trailer and into the woods up ahead. Stammos took aim from her cover while the trio of Peggies scrambled to pursue the man. She’d culled animals before in her past line of work, but having a man (however hairy) in her cross-hairs was another experience entirely. Instinctively, she aimed high, keeping her finger off the trigger until one of them was well and truly within kicking distance of the truck that the Marshal had commandeered.

She held her breath, aiming at his stomach to maim rather than kill, and pulled the trigger. A crackle echoed through the yard, recoil blowing Stammos back onto her ass. Her target doubled over, the assault rifle slipping from his hands as he stumbled into the side of the truck with a groan. 

His partners immediately took cover, and the truck high beams switched on, bathing the area in hard light. The Marshal revved the vehicle, pulling out of the garage, and Stammos burst out from her hiding place. Gunfire resumed, chasing her from one end of the yard to the other.

“Get his gun and _GET IN!_ ” The Marshal barked over the rattling, and Stammos ducked down, snatching the assault rifle from the ground beside the writhing Peggie. His hands shook over a bleeding wound in the centre of his stomach.

“Sorry!” She yipped, tossing both guns in her grasp into the bed of the truck. A warning rev from the Marshal to hurry up made the woman clamber in, flattening herself to the base. The truck roared, beginning its ascent up the dirt road, through the trees and away from the group. Inside, the Marshal whooped, sliding the cabin window and glancing back into the truck bed while Stammos attempted to balance herself. 

“That was amazing! We’re fuckin’ outta here!” He cheered. “You just took down your first hostile, Rook!”

Only she hadn’t. Turning back around to survey the retreating scene behind them, Stammos could make out the Peggie she’d shot, pushing himself onto all fours. He straightened out, withdrawing a secondary weapon from his pocket, and Stammos ducked down, assuming he was making a last ditch effort to shoot her. 

Instead, he aimed straight up.

A crackling red orb shot high into the night sky, still visible drifting over the treetops even after the trailer disappeared around a bend. Stammos could feel the blood rush from her face at the sight.

_Fuck._

“Fuck.” The Marshal echoed, slamming his foot on the gas pedal, sending Stammos skidding across the truck bed. Wind picked up, whipping at her face.

The moment they reached the main road, a second truck intercepted them, ramming hard against the tail lights.

“Speed up!” Stammos cried, scrambling for the assault rifle while a Peggie in the passenger seat leaned out, pistol in-hand.

“It’s a pickup!” The Marshal roared back. “Just SHOOT!”

The Deputy aimed at the hood of the truck behind them, trailing mere feet behind, and fired. The automatic function caused her whole body to shake, not built to be used by someone of her stature. Her muscles were instantly shredded apart by the action and pain spread over her upper body.

She grit her teeth against the recoil, locking her arms and keeping her aim fixed. She kept shooting.

A loud hiss spilled forth from the truck, followed by a billow of steam. The vehicle slowed to a stop.

“Up front!”

Stammos darted to the driver’s cabin, taking cover behind the rear window. A convoy of quad bikes, drivers unarmed, swept in front of them, converging in a staggered pace to slow the truck down. She aimed for a tyre, but it was ineffective.

“Get outta here!” Someone called over the rushing wind. “John’s on his way!”

Stammos stilled. 

She had no idea if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

“Oh jesus, no, is that what I think it is?” The Marshal exclaimed.

As if in response to her doubts, the rumbling engine of a plane stuttered, unseen in the distance. Black paint nearly against the night sky save for a blinking green light. Something in Stammos’s core tightened, seeing that tiny light make its approach. Dread, maybe. It made her skin feel like it was going to melt from her flesh. 

Not even three days ago, the pilot had been bugging her to socialise with his family. Not one hour ago, he’d worn a friendly face. She knew there was no possible way he intended just to fly on by. She’d visited his ranch too many times to bank on that. She’d seen the size of the guns on that plane. 

Still, a part of her hoped that he’d hold off. That if she stared the vehicle down with a severe enough scowl and discouraged it from attacking the same way she’d always deterred John from pursuing her, it might work. 

A mechanical whirring stirred overhead, signalling the charge of a weapon. 

There was no fucking hope. No chance of running away. She was stuck out in the open with a gun she couldn’t lift and a military-issue plane for an opponent. 

“FIND US COVER!” Stammos bellowed, rapping on the roof of the truck.

The Marshal had started yelling something back at her, but his voice was drowned out completely by the deafening buzz of dozens of .50 calibre bullets tearing through the air. Patches of tar and dust along the road behind the truck burst from the ground, carving a path up to the bed. 

The rattle of metal puncturing metal followed, and then, the machine gun stopped firing. The plane’s engine grew quieter, passing overhead. 

“Fuck! You okay?!” 

Stammos flipped back around to find the Marshal checking her over from the driver’s seat. She nodded, giving what she thought at the time was a thumbs up, but with the degree of numbness in her fingers, it was probably more of a closed fist.

Everything was comparatively quiet for a moment. The bridge announcing the road out of town was nearing. Hanging from its frame, a sign read: “ _ **NOW LEAVING HOPE COUNTY. MISSOULA, 178 MILES.**_ ”

They were so fucking close.

“No, no, no.” The Marshal shook his head, pointing past the bridge at the horizon. “He’s coming back around.”

Lifting her gaze made Stammos’s heart sink. The Marshal hadn’t been lying. John was back on the approach and fast incoming, dive bombing toward the bridge. The machine guns failed to stir back to life, but something opened beneath the plane. Something dropped from the sky. 

Something hit the bridge the same moment they’d made it. 

Momentarily, Stammos’s ears no longer worked. All she could sense was heat and fire and raw force ripping through her skin as the truck was blown into the air. Her body hit the cool softness of the river below, full of shrapnel just like her, and she found herself without the strength to fight against the current. She was back to the daze she’d experienced back in the helicopter.

The Deputy let the gentle waters wash her up on the shore, unconcerned with her direction in the darkness. She wasn’t fighting any longer, and that was a step up. 

The heat of blood bloomed over her chest. 

Lights danced with shadowed figures on the opposite shore. Everything in her sight was stretched and adorned with halos. It was a nice sight.

An arm looped around her, tugging her out of the sand. Another hooked beneath her legs, and she felt herself pressed against a chest. Found her gaze directed at the starry sky. The man’s bald head bobbed around in the corner of her eye.

“Marshal?” She croaked. “Did we make it across the river?”

He said nothing. Just continued to walk. Stammos didn’t mind that. She’d just experienced enough sound to last a lifetime. 

* * *

When Stammos came to this time around, she was quick to lurch up, fully prepared to be on the move once more. Instead of another floor, however, she found herself amongst padded cushions. A couch. The ache in her head had dulled to a sting, and placing her hand over what was once gauze, Stammos found a short, bumpy line of stitches trailing through her scalp. She scrunched a handful of her hair, experimental. The locks squeaked in her grasp, filthy. 

_Gross._

She turned her attention to the rest of the room; more or less a living space, awash in blue from the back-lights of a bubbling fish tank. Behind the couch, a kitchenette. In front of it, a coffee table topped littered with a few empty plates and bowls. The room opened to two hallways, and around the corner of one, a man’s voice called out military codes amongst colourful curses. 

Stammos swung her legs over the couch and stood, testing her limbs while she headed into the corridor. Generally sore all over, but nothing really worse than a post-workout day. 

She found her target seated the next room over, fiddling with a dial on an amateur radio and barking into a microphone. He was bald, bespectacled, and bordering on elderly. She’d seen his likeness pinned to the wall in the Sheriff’s office for outstanding fines. Stammos’s hand hovered over the holster of her gun, but she found the pouch empty. She felt her pockets. No phone either.

“Where’s my weapon?” She spoke from the doorway, voice low and cold as she could muster, drawing the man’s gaze. 

“Took it.” He answered with a shrug, rotating in his office chair while Stammos entered the room. Newspapers and photos covered the walls around his desk, some highlighted with colourful tacks and post-its. “You’ll get it back.”

“How long?”

“Bordering on four days.”

  
“How long until you give my gun back?”

“Until I deem it safe to have an armed cop in my home.” His answer came in stern. They eyed each other for a long moment before Cora broke away. “Especially one so hell-bent on having the loudest possible start to their career, _Deputy_. Never in history have I heard of someone tanking it _so hard_ for everyone else, _so soon_ after leaving the pen.”

Stammos frowned at that. “That wasn’t my fault.”

Images flickered through her head. Cuffing Joseph. The Peggie she’d failed to neutralise shooting a flare into the sky. 

“Bullshit it’s not. You’ll bark up whatever tree you can.” He replied, gesturing over her shoulder. She turned, finding a large cork-board, decorated with images and notes pertaining to the Seed family, all plastered over a map of the region. In the bottom corner, a newspaper clipping: “ _ **RICHARD ROOSEVELT CHARGED WITH RESOURCE THEFT, FOUND IN CONTEMPT OF COURT.**_ ”

Ah. She remembered him now.

“You _were_ stealing.”

“From snitching as a ranger to attacking a fucking cult as a cop.”

Stammos could hardly restrain the roll in her eyes at his complaints. “Where’s the exit?”

  
A snort erupted from Roosevelt. “Kid, you don’t understand how deep the shit you’re in really is.” He stood up, approaching the cork-board beside her and pointing at each of the photos. 

“Every one of these people and their Peggie followers wants your head on a pike for interrupting their End Days preparation. Staying right here’s the safest thing for you.”

  
“Bullshit.” Stammos waved his comment away, heading over to his radio. Roosevelt immediately intercepted her, eyes blazing.

“Do not.” He warned. “They’re looking for you. They rounded up all your Deputy pals for God knows what, and you’re the last one still running around.”

Stammos’s stomach coiled. Surely it hadn’t gotten that bad. Surely Nancy would’ve radioed the national guard when the team went dark. 4 days was enough time that this should’ve blown over - for someone with actual authority to remove the Seeds from the picture and allow everything to go back to the way it was. Her colleagues would be fine. It was all just a scare. 

Yet, the fires had been real. So had the blood. So had the .50 calibre holes in the truck bed. Her legs trembled. She sat against the desk, picking at her fingers while she looked between Roosevelt and the cork-board.

“Tell me what happened.” She muttered.

The man dove into the events that followed her chase with the Marshal that night - how the agent had been captured along with the rest of the Deputies. How all public phone lines and radio towers had been intercepted. That within hours of their arrest attempt, the entire Eden’s Gate movement had armed itself and taken to the streets in trucks, rounding up civilians. The cult had overthrown the local government and assumed complete control of Hope County. Resources stolen. Bodies by the roadside. All radio chatter cleared only for Eden’s Gate’s scheduled warnings to the people to comply and to hand in the lost Deputy.

The concept stirred a wave of vertigo in Stammos. One, instantaneous instinct that followed Roosevelt’s words wrung her thoughts. _Get out of here._ _Run away. **Escape.**_ It was a feeling she was well-acquainted with, only now, amplified tenfold.

“Where’s the Sheriff?” 

Roosevelt shook his head. “No idea. Fell off the map, same as you.”

“Then we’ll find him.” Stammos lurched, spotting her ticket out. “He’ll know how to get out of this.”

“I don’t doubt that, but like I said, the towers are down.”

Stammos’s gaze turned toward the map. “Where are we right now?”

Roosevelt followed her gaze, running his hand over the map and tapping his finger on a pinpoint. “This little island here. Closest radio tower’s not two miles away, but again, like I said, there’s Peggies everywhere.”

“That’s not right.” Stammos snorted, stalking over to him, arms crossed, squinting at the island on the map. 

“What?”

“My old office is on that island. There’s three other buildings around there, tops. I would’ve seen a place as big as this.”

Roosevelt looked at her like she’d just slapped him.

“Kid, are you shittin’ me?”

“I literally worked right there.” She pointed next to his finger.

“We’re under the fucking ground.”

A pause. 

“I don’t remember seeing any land permits for-”

“Well it’s here!” Roosevelt hissed. “Christ, no wonder you became a cop. Little Miss Rule Book.”

Stammos scowled at him. “You want me to fix your tower or not?’

They stared each other down once more, Stammos clenching her jaw and Roosevelt jutting his chin out.

“You get that tower up and running again, and you’ll be doing us both a favour. I need to get back in contact with the rest of the county, and you need to find your Sheriff. You go up there and do that, and I’ll think twice about throwing you to the dogs when the cult comes knocking.” Roosevelt growled, pulling away from her to trudge back to his radio. “You fuckin’ stink, by the way.”

  
She wouldn’t disagree with that. She could feel the grit that coated her skin. 

“Got a shower?”

“Down the hall to the right. My niece’s room’s the opposite. Bunk up in there and take her clothes. Might have to roll up the pants a few times.”

“Problem with the uniform?”

“Only in that wearing it’s gonna be like carrying a giant bullseye on you. We’re gonna need to bury it.”

Stammos grumbled her protests, but he was right. She left the room and followed his directions to the bathroom. A shower cubicle and a basin with a medicine cabinet. Concrete flooring with several drainage points. Roosevelt was well-established down here. 

She ran the taps and checked herself over in the mirror while she waited for the hot water to kick in. There were few times in her life when she’d looked worse. Scabs littered her face, neck, and chest, coated with dirt and dust. Bruises blotted her shoulder. Some more angry spots had seen a sponge (probably Roosevelt’s work), but she was filthy regardless. A stitched line of black thread ran from the tip of her left brow, disappearing into her hairline, and the entire surrounding area was covered in the brown crust of old blood. A shower was well-due.

After scrubbing herself down and taking a few minutes to lament the very thought of applying name-brand conditioner to her hair, Stammos was out and dressed. Roosevelt hadn’t been wrong about his niece’s clothes. Whoever it was was by no means overweight, but outside of uniform, Stammos had been required multiple, harrowing times in the past to shop in the children section thanks to her stature. The cargo pants were cuffed thrice and the black t-shirt stuffed into their waist. The only available shoes left in the closet had been an old pair of military boots, similar to Stammos’s own. Rather than risk the blisters, she decided to keep on with what she had. 

Returning to Dutch with her old clothes in a bundle, she found him in the kitchen, cleaning dishes. He took them from her with soapy hands, and she instantly began scrunching her hair, trying to style it into place.

“Glad to be workin’ with you, Dep.” He grumbled. “We’ll getcha set up and on your way in no time.”

Stammos was quiet for a moment. In terms of social comfort, she’d preferred it when they were at odds. The next word that came out of her made her throat run dry.

“Thanks, Mr. Roosevelt.”

“It’s Dutch.” He answered, pulling her ball of clothes away from himself to peer at the name that had been embroidered into the shirt. “And you’re...C. Stammos. What’s the C stand for?”

Her ears burned. She averted her gaze. 

“Cora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be seeing more of the Seeds next chapter!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr: https://baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	3. Every Dog Has Its Day

**“** Cut!”

The frantic chanting of ‘Yes’ from the pews quieted on command, leaving just the birds in the trees and one gagged, sobbing woman to carry on with their white noise. Regardless of the fact that Hudson had been standing right beside their leader and focal point of the event, John’s followers paid her no mind. Despite the tears and the binds and the wracking in her shoulders all blasting universal calls for help, she didn’t exist. 

All eyes were on him. 

“Was that the one?” John breathed, breaking his gaze away from the tripod to send a hopeful look the cinematographer’s way. The boom pole swung away and the Grip switched off the dampened globes that had been illuminating the Baptist.

“Incredible.” The man beamed. “That was it.”

“We got it!” Spinning on his heel and throwing his hands to the sky, John instantly pulled a cheer from his band. They applauded him and themselves, some standing from their seats to congratulate each other on a job well done.

John, meanwhile, stepped closer to the cinematographer, taking him by the shoulders and pulling him in close. “Send me everything the moment you get it on a drive. We need this on-air by tomorrow.”

There was a hesitation on the man’s part. Drawing away, John watched his mouth open, readying a denial; a suggestion that John’s order would have him working through the night. John silenced him before he even began with a squeeze of his fingers, two parts encouragement - one part a reminder of who was boss. He didn’t wait. 

John slipped away and sauntered back over to his crowd, linking his arm through Hudson’s as if she’d co-hosted the occasion. His mere return silenced them, awaiting the words of one of God’s favoured.

“Thank you so much to **_everyone_**. I know many of you had other duties to attend to today, and with the Reaping so successfully underway, these are…” He broke his speech to gasp, feigning a pant and pressing his free hand to his chest. Laughter broke through the crowd. Sympathetic. No one worked harder than John. Every one of them knew that. Their day’s sacrifice was nothing in comparison to his workload, and yet he still maintained a sense of humour about it all. They were blessed to work under his wing.

John chuckled along, pressing unseen fingernails into the underside of Hudson’s wrist when she attempted to flinch away from him. “They’re damned busy times is what they are. That makes any free time you can spare all the more valuable, and it’s what makes me all the more appreciative. Our work today will broadcast across the county, to the homes of every sinner still resistant to the Project at Eden’s Gate. We are preparing our newest brothers and sisters to take the next step toward atonement, and weighing the souls of the worthy in the name of the Father.”

At the very mention of Joseph, the applauding resumed, prompting John to raise a hand at the crowd. Immediate silence. 

“Just viewing this in their living rooms - their kitchens, their garages, their bars - those who are not already among us will be turned one more degree toward the right path; toward the light of God. That’s all thanks to today, and to all of you.” 

With that, John released his hold on the crowd, granting them permission to celebrate. He unlinked himself from Hudson and sent a nod at one of his waiting Chosen watching over the area. She was guided through the aisles of whooping followers while John waved his goodbyes to everyone, following after her, offering the odd touch to those he passed. Fingers and palms slid along his sleeves, but no one held him back. Once they’d exited the property, John and Hudson separated. She was loaded into a reaping van bound for the bunker, and he continued on his merry way along the track until he reached his truck. The van passed by with a honk, prompting an extra smile and a wave out of the Baptist. 

As soon as John was safe behind the tinted windows, however, the smile slipped from his face. He sat still in the driver’s seat for a moment before turning his attention to the smartphone charging on the centre console.

His expression soured. ' _ **PHONE LOCKED. WAIT 17 MINUTES TO RETRY. 3 ATTEMPT(S) REMAINING.'**_

Four numbers. That was all he needed. Times like these, he understood why Joseph hated technology so much. Four numbers, and he wouldn’t have had to bother with an entire day wasted on filming a vague promotional threat. He could’ve just dug around for the dirt he needed to draw his target straight out into the open and have this all over and done with. 

Four numbers, and that wayward Deputy would already be in his hands. 

John dropped the phone back into the console, pulled his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose, and started the truck, commencing his trip back to the ranch.

It had been two weeks since the Junior Deputy had disappeared off into the night, and while John would’ve considered her rare lack of meddling in his business a relief, the woman seemed to somehow be making more trouble for him absent than when she’d been barking orders in his face. 

Holland Valley was currently the busiest of the three regions in the county; soldiers to the north and a Bliss factory to the east, and everything else was John’s responsibility. Resources of every kind. Water, food, appliances, vehicles, housing - the list went on. He was even composting the soil for Faith’s crops and sending Jacob prospective Chosen. Not only was he single-handedly ensuring that thousands of people weren’t going to starve for seven years; he was also baptising, cleansing, and atoning sinners by the dozen. He’d be lying if he’d said a break from Deputy wasn’t a welcome change. 

Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the will of the Father. According to Joseph, John’s “little act of showboating” had been what resulted in the Deputy slipping through their fingers in the first place. Thus, it was his responsibility to apprehend her. His wrong to right. 

John noted whitened knuckles on the wheel and flexed his fingers, dispelling them.

He wouldn’t contest Joseph’s will. It was an opportunity to prove himself, and he’d gladly take it. Placing a microscope over those who threatened their family was one of John’s more favoured activities. It was what he was good at, and he was sure he’d have no problem going after the one person who’d been getting under his skin for a particularly long time. 

Had he considered it a major victory, seeing her enter Joseph’s church after _**years**_ of trying to recruit the infamously peevish woman? He had. He’d readily admit to having been delighted at spotting that bleached platinum hair from the opposite side of the room. That particular Deputy, while an absolute thorn in his side, had immense potential. Even before her few months as a cop, she was three years of non-stop bossy, unwavering, confrontational trouble. At times, she’d preached the rights of the local flora and fauna at him more passionately than some of Joseph’s own speeches. Hardly five feet tall and behaved like she stood a full head and shoulders above everyone else. That attitude in the right hands would’ve been a marvel, were it free of sin. Angling that passion toward the Project at Eden’s Gate would’ve been a massive advantage, John thought. So, when the woman led a pack of cops into their sacred place and hooked a pair of handcuffs on the Father instead of accepting his word into her heart, had John felt a sting of betrayal? 

It was indeed disappointing. However, as irksome as it was to have to hunt the woman down now, it wasn’t a huge loss. John wasn’t a stranger to dealing with her, and after today, he was sure he’d draw her out into the open. 

Deputy Staci Pratt was widely reported by county residents, both flock and sinner, to be something of a prick. Donning a badge was a get out of jail free card to him, and he held the threat of arrest over anyone he personally didn’t like. John was glad he’d been sent up to Jacob. Jacob could set him straight, and if not, at least those dogs of his would’ve at least fed on his recycled meat. John probably would’ve just gutted him and strung him up somewhere. 

Deputy Joey Hudson, on the other hand, was far more interesting. She was reserved and respected. Held people at arm’s length after a particularly heartbreaking event that saw her previous partner killed in service. She was the obvious option to succeed Whitehorse when the man eventually went into retirement. Hudson wasn’t led around by her emotions and insecurities like Pratt was, and John personally couldn’t wait to crack her open and take a look around in her brain. Even just looking at the mascara stains on her cheeks made him feel victorious. She’d be an excellent convert. 

Hudson was the better of the two, both in terms of human value and advantage. According to Nancy, she was one of the people who clashed the least with the little blonde at the Sheriff’s office. No evidence of friendship, but it was a step up from the alternative, who both women reportedly argued with often. Their shared femininity was also helpful. Women naturally responded more to the plights of other women. 

Having a known weak spot would’ve been preferable; something that didn’t require a whole morning of setting up a film set to get his target to come running out of her hiding place, but until he was able to crack that damn phone, Hudson was the best possible option. 

The next step was just getting that video on-air. 

He’d have that Deputy within a matter of days. 

* * *

  
It had taken patience and elbow grease, but Dutch’s radio tower was finally back up and running, which meant Cora was one step closer to finding Sheriff Whitehorse and worming her way out of this mess. At least, it should’ve meant that. Despite re-establishing communications with Fall’s End, Dutch had found no answer from the one man who he was sure would be in the know as to the Sheriff’s whereabouts.

Pastor Jerome Jeffries had gone silent. As had most of his other contacts in Holland Valley. It had been aggravating to hear, but at least it was a problem that came with an easy enough plan to follow: Find the Pastor. No more living underground with Dutch and his old man stories. She could finally move on from carrying out errands and zip-tying the odd stray Peggie on this cramped little island, and do what she did best - work alone. 

Fall’s End was a rough three-day trek if one followed the roads, but with Eden’s Gate roaming about, that meant sticking to the woods. At most, a five-day ETA to follow whatever trail Jeffries’ may have left behind in the town, and with hope, to get to the pouch of pills she’d left in her truck at the office. 

Dutch had seen her off with some dried food and a telescopic fishing rod in a backpack that he’d demanded she return, along with one of the hand-held radios in his collection to keep in contact, and a few spare rounds for the pistol he’d returned to her. Aside from that, he couldn’t spare much else. Cora was fine with that. Holland Valley was full of food, and summer was in full-swing. Surviving on the basics was a much less ugly thought than being any more in debt to the old man.

She set out just before dawn, which Dutch had calculated to be an empty hour between Peggie shift change-overs. Her crossing the bridge into the valley would go undetected, he’d assured, and he’d been correct. Cora was back on the mainland without issue, passing through the apple orchard in low light. The view coming in looked just the same as always - like it was just another weekday morning ride to the office. There was a tranquillity she’d always drawn from admiring it. 

Not today. Today, it felt uneasy. 

Perhaps it was the knowledge she’d gained of the underbelly of the region that she’d turned a willingly blind eye to. Maybe it was that returning to civilisation also meant more fighting. More people asking for help that she wasn’t equipped to give. Maybe it was just the nagging worry for that fucking dog barking over at the Pumpkin Farm. She could’ve sworn it hadn’t always been that noisy. 

Old training flickered away in her distracted brain. _ **'National Park Service, Fish and Wildlife Division. Protect and Preserve! Critter in trouble? Call the Silver Lake Ranger Office! Ensuring the safety of our residents who can’t holler for help, storm or fire!'**_ By this point, it was a conditioned response, and one that she might have acted on had it been a year earlier. She was a cop now, though. There were bigger things at stake. She had to keep moving. It wasn’t any of her business.

She’d almost made it out of earshot when a single yelp pierced through the air, sending Cora’s head whipping back in the direction of the farm. 

**_Critter in trouble._ **

Then, she was sprinting.

* * *

  
  


“ _John_ -”

  
“Not a single casualty, Joseph. They said she just ran right onto the property.” John bragged, sitting back on his dining room chair. A celebratory joint twiddled in his grasp, dripping ash onto the forgotten progress report beneath his elbows.

_“That’s wonderful, b-”_

“Not even a shot fired. Not one escape. I’m sorry, I know I’m speaking over you; it just feels good to see the fruits of one’s labour like this. It’s done with, and now we can just continue on as we were-”

“ _ **John.**_ ” Joseph’s voice cut straight through John’s train of thought, tone simultaneously nurturing and harsh. Unseen to his older brother, the man’s shoulders scrunched up like a scolded child at the sound. 

“ _Incredible as it is that you’ve reaped so many wayward souls in so little time, one doesn’t carry more or less weight than the rest.” Joseph continued. “There’s still work to do, and despite your claims, there **was** an escape. Have your people offered any updates on the dog?_”

John squinted. “The dog?”

 _“The shepherd that was released from the farm_.”

“No, but as impressive as it was, it’s just a-...” John cut himself off, hearing a small sigh from the other end of the line.

 _“That dog is important to your brother’s research. Please keep an eye out for it. It’s a pity it managed to slip away_.”

“You want me to scour the wilderness for a dog.”

 _“I do_.”

“For Jacob.”

 _“Yes. As quickly as possible_.”

John paused. A wave of irritation grinding his teeth together. He took a drag of his joint, manually alleviating the building seize in his muscles. Two weeks of work, and no acknowledgement. He’d only caught the person who’d attempted to take Joseph into custody. Tied up the one glaring loose end that could’ve threatened their Project.

_“Are you all right, John?”_

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been silent, or if he had been at all. It didn’t matter. Even on the phone, Joseph still saw right through him.

“Jacob already has his judges. He’s perfected them. Aren’t there bigger things to be focusing on?” He asked. 

_“Like gloating about a Deputy in your custody?”_

“A Deputy can use a _**gun**_ , and tried to take you from us. Unless Jake’s planning on giving the animal opposable thumbs and the ability to cite the Constitution-”

“ _I understand that you consider your work more worthy than everyone else’s, but while you prepare our resources, our brother is ensuring our survival after we resurface. That breed could mean the difference between a dozen caught meals and a family’s starvation. If you could think beyond yourself and your own accomplishments, you might grasp that.”_

Joseph’s soft tone may as well have been a roar. John scowled down at the table, pen cracking in his fist. Another drag.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

_“Are you smoking again?”_

“No.” His voice jumped up half an octave.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Whatever John had been holding out for his brother to say, Joseph was withholding it. 

_“When’s your next Cleansing?”_

A new topic. Acknowledgement of stalemate, maybe.

“Tonight.”

 _“Good. The waters will be beneficial to you, just as they are to your newest._ ”

John wasn’t certain whether that was an encouragement or an insult. It didn’t matter. His response wouldn’t change.

“Yes. Thank you.”

_“Find the dog. I love you, brother.”_

Joseph ended the call before John could reply.

* * *

  
  
The interior of a Reaping van, Cora had found, wasn’t half bad. Cushioned cabin. Seatbelts. Eden’s Gate seemed to offer their captives more luxury than the Sheriff’s Department offered their perps. Folk music danced into the rear cabin from the car radio up front, and the two Peggies sitting in the back on either side of her were pleasantly silent. There were negatives, of course: the fact that she’d been captured by a cult who’d taken her colleagues hostage, stripped of her backpack and weapon, and that her pleasantly silent guards were armed with assault rifles. 

The worst thing in Cora’s mind, however, was the three other captives across from her who’d been glaring daggers in her direction for the past twelve hours while the van roamed the countryside before turning around for the Cleansing.

“Almost there.” The driver mentioned over his shoulder, earning a nod from the Peggies up back.

The other captives only scowled harder. Cora had been doing her best to ignore them, but when one man finally spat at her feet, the Deputy finally scowled back. Mullet and a Hulk Hogan moustache. Of course.

“You mind?” She squinted.

“Matter of fact, I don’t. You mind not being a complete fucking shithead?” 

“Watch who you’re talking to.” Cora growled.

It was on.

The woman beside the spitter barked a faux laugh. “Or what, you’ll get us kidnapped again?”

“I was _**trying**_ to help.”

“The dog! You helped a fucking dog! We were right there on the driveway..”

“In my defence, I didn’t know that. You were being very quiet until I took the tape off your mouth and you started screaming at me to pull my gun.”

The woman leaned forward, hissing. “Why didn’t you? We wouldn’t be here if you’d just taken ‘em down.”

“Ma’am, I ran through every stage in the book prior to shooting and killing. Warnings, declaration of identity, notification of drawing my service weapon-.”

“Where was the shooting and killing part? Suddenly cops are against that shit?” The man scoffed.

Cora hesitated at that. “I made a rescue, though.”

“A dog. Jesus, do you even see the people around you let alone give a shit? Anyone else; literally anyone of the other coppers would’ve taken the shot and gotten us out of this mess. Why’d it have to be you who got away from ‘em? We’d be miles away by now if you’d just _**taken the fucking shot**_.”

She fell silent, picking at the binds around her wrists.

There was an unpleasant truth to his words. Hudson or Pratt would’ve taken the shot. Either of them, with the extra years of experience they had on her, would’ve known what to do. They had the awareness and practice that she lacked. They were accustomed to guns. They’d killed people. She hadn’t, and she hadn’t wanted to. 

She shouldn’t have had to kill people. She shouldn’t have had to put those cuffs on Joseph Seed in the first place. Maybe none of the people across from her would’ve needed a botched rescuing from that farm if she hadn’t. 

A Peggie to her right shifted beside her. Leaned down. The bristles of his beard brushed her hair.

“God will look kindly on your actions. Your heart made the right choice.” He murmured. “Thank you for sparing our brothers and sisters.” 

She probably shouldn’t have. 

The van rocked as it pulled away from the road and down a dirt slope. Out the front windshield, moonlight glittered on the surface of a lake. When they slowed to a stop, Cora stood herself up, veering away from the touch of the Peggie beside her. She could walk herself there. She didn’t need help. He’d been lenient enough, perhaps thanks to the mercy she’d shown his fellow followers to trust that she wouldn’t try to escape, and simply walked alongside her.

So far, simply acquiescing was bringing much better results than remaining in disagreement with Eden’s Gate. Maybe playing along would keep her safer than resisting, contrary to what Dutch had been insisting.

That consideration evaporated when she was led down to the shoreline, catching John Seed’s wiry silhouette hip deep in the water. Followers around him held bound captives beneath the surface while he chanted something. She couldn’t hear what. The splashing and the screaming in her head to turn and run were too loud.

His outstretched hands rose into the air and the captives were wrenched from the water, gasping and shivering, all led past him in a daze on their way back to dry land. John’s attention followed them as they went, gaze climbing up to the newest arrivals over his shoulder.

Cora and John’s eyes met, and while the blood drained from her face, a pointed smile crept onto his, too sharp and too wide.

He turned, wading back to shore and handing his bible off while his previous band of new baptists were wrapped in wool blankets and led back to their own van. His leather shoes squelched on dry land as he approached, bee-lining for Cora, soaked jeans sticking to his legs. It took somewhat of an edge off of his threatening demeanor, but she was yet to forget that he’d almost succeeded in blowing her up. 

“There she is!” John sang, not taking his eyes off her. He did that patronising slouch again. “The Deputy we’ve been waiting for. Did you read Chapter 1 like we agreed?”

Cora didn’t respond, frowning hard at him. She had not. She’d dropped the bible he’d forced upon her into her kitchen trash can.

There was a jarring pause before John turned his attention to the others, charm renewed.

“Welcome, everyone, to your first baby steps toward atonement and ultimately passing through the gates of Eden.”

  
“Aw, fuck off, Seed.” 

The man who’d spit at Cora’s feet proceeded to do the same to John’s. Well-hydrated, Cora thought. The Baptist simply smiled, clasping his hands together and glancing at one of the Peggies on standby. In an instant, the butt of his rifle jammed hard into the man’s ribs, forcing the wind out of him. He doubled over, staggering until the pack of his shirt was gripped tight, tearing him back into a stand.

“It’s normal to feel nervous, Merle. With change comes fear, but consider yourselves among the lucky - summer’s the best time for a Cleansing, trust me. Last winter, one gentleman’s beard froze solid.”

Scattered laughter rippled through Peggies present. John joined in, just for a moment.

“It was hilarious, but sadly, he no longer has a chin.” He added. “So let’s not wait any longer. 30 seconds - then it’s all done and over with, and you’re ready for Confession.”

John’s gaze flickered back to Cora, then; a flash of a sneer in his expression. He spun on his heel, shoes grinding the pebbles beneath him. “Brothers, refresh the Bliss.”

Bliss?

  
The Peggie beside Cora gestured for her to move forward while the others were grabbed. She did as instructed, heading toward the lapping waters, and he slung his rifle over his shoulder, preparing to commence. 

“The water’s always cold, but the shock’s part of the awakening.” He muttered. “Just tap my arm if you need to come up for air.”

John twisted around then, offering both Cora and her escort a grin. His hand shot to Cora’s sleeve before she could duck away from him, grasping the baggy fabric tight and twisting it around his fist. “I’ll take this one, brother.”

There was a hesitation from both of them. While she hadn’t necessarily been enjoying the Peggie trying to take her under his wing, she was by default much safer with the armed stranger than she was with the Baptist.

John had already yanked Cora to his side, not awaiting a response, and she had no choice but to follow or stumble. Wet rocks gave way beneath her feet, unsteady.

“Are you sure, John? Your book-”

“My memory’s just fine. _**I can take it from here**_.” John looked down at Cora then; the two of them having to crane their heads to meet the other’s eye at their proximity. From this close up, it was much easier to tell how phoney that smile was - plastered all over the bottom half of his face but failing to reach his eyes. “Besides, the little Deputy and I need to have a few words.”

The Peggie inclined his head and stepped away. John pulled Cora yet again, drawing her to the water's edge. Cold water spilled into her boots.

John leaned down, wading beside her, chin hooking over her shoulder. “I think you’ve got an admirer.” He whispered.

She ignored him, instead watching as another of his followers tipped a green barrel over into the lake. An almost fluorescent liquid spilled out, thick and cloudy. A lump caught in Cora’s throat at the sight.

“What is that?” She hissed, making a lurch toward the barrel, water sloshing around her knees. John easily tugged her back to his side. “You can’t do that. There are fish in this lake.”

“Where the fuck are your priorities?” Merle wheezed up ahead.

“You’re gonna love it.” John answered. “It’ll help you relax. Help you hear the word of God.”

He stopped walking once the water had reached his hips and Cora was submerged to the waist. A calloused palm drifted over the goosebumps pebbling on her arm, trying to turn her around. She jerked away, performing the action herself.

“Quit touching me. I can do it myself.” She snapped.

A breath of laughter escaped John at that. “You can’t baptise yourself. The easier you let this be, the quicker it’ll be over with.”

His hands drew back up, and he raised his eyebrows, feigning a request for permission. Cora could feel the baby hairs all over her body stand on end; a mixture of contempt for the man’s touch and the cold penetrating her skin. She exhaled and gave a nod. The sooner she was out of that water, the sooner she could make a break for it. One hand pressed to the small of her back, and John loomed over her.

“Repent and be baptised, every one of you.” John began, turning his attention to the group. “In the name of the Father for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will be granted passage to march in the light of God toward Eden’s Gate.”

His phrase was familiar, and not. Reminiscent of a true verse she’d heard in her childhood, transposed. Stolen, Cora would’ve said. She hadn’t liked those words back then, and she didn’t like them now. 

He drew closer, and Cora’s immediate instinct was to headbutt him. She held off.

“For only in these holy waters in the light of God, can you begin to atone. Accept the Father into your life, and into your heart. Allow him to govern you and love you as his children.” John’s free hand pressed suddenly to Cora’s forehead, pushing her back with a hiss. “Fall back.”

Cora stiffened. “Watch the hair.”

He shoved her the rest of the way, submerging the Deputy. The cold enveloped her, and she gasped a mouthful of water before remembering to hold her breath. Her feet struggled to remain planted while he held her under, keeping her body angled away from being able to balance itself. Seconds passed before he wrenched her back up, pinning her against his front to force her to stand once more. She spluttered into his chest, pressing her binds against his sternum to push herself away, eyes, nose and throat all stinging.

In her periphery, Cora could see her fellow captives guided back toward the shore. John however, held her there, unmoving. Waiting. 

A dizziness floated into her brain, then; vision blurring, lights behind the man before her stretching. Suddenly the warmth against his stomach wasn’t all so despicable. She felt her lips part without permission and a surge of emotion in her chest, spilling into her limbs and warming her from the inside out. This was Bliss.

“Woah.” Cora breathed. Above her, John chuckled.

“Told you.” He murmured. The reverberation in his throat rippled through Cora’s fingers, sending shockwaves up her arms. Her nails caught on the carved lettering barely concealed by his shirt, picking at textured skin. She found herself trying to stand as close to him as possible now, coating herself in his warmth. He smelled like spiced cologne and smoke and metal. His fingers slid up the base of her neck and through her hair, gently tugging her head back to look at his face. 

“I need you to tell me something.” He said.

The answer came out before she could even think to refuse. 

“Okay.”  
  
“Where’s the dog?”

Her brow furrowed. “The dog?”

“The one you released at the farm. Where did you put it?”

“Oh...I can’t remember. I just let it go.”

A pause.

“You can’t remember.”

“N-”

His fingers tore at her hair then, plunging her back into the water. She was too dizzy to count and too blissed out to struggle against him, but he held her under for a lot longer this time. Long enough for her lungs to hurt and for her to gasp strangled and hoarse when he brought her back up.

“How about now?” He asked, voice hard.

More dizziness. More Bliss. Cora’s eyes wandered, not quite able to focus. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His lip had curled, baring teeth.

“Concentrate. That dog’s life is important.”

A huff escaped Cora. “Finally, someone agrees with me.” She croaked.

Back under she went. Murmuring sounded from above, and she was up once more, coughing water. John dropped her completely, leaving her collapsed on her knees. Both hands clawed at her scalp.

“She’s fine.” John barked over his shoulder, now just a blackened silhouette against the lights behind him.

“John-” The same Peggie as before.

“ _ **She needs to answer for her actions**_.”

“John.” Another voice. 

The grip on her loosened.

John lurched away from Cora. “Fath-”

“Get her out of the water. She’s had enough.”

* * *

  
  


Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

What was he doing here? Why now? Thirty people baptised, and the one that made him slip was the one Joseph had to be present for. 

John did as he was told, taking Cora by the arm and lifting her up one-handed. She came willingly, as did everyone affected by Bliss. He nodded to one of his followers, and within moments, a blanket had been draped around the little woman. Every action he moved through, he avoided meeting his older brother’s eye. Even just having him in his periphery filled him with shame. There was no way to make this look better than it looked. 

Rather than excuse himself for how he’d been discovered, John said nothing. He turned silent as he tugged Cora to meet Joseph. The Father was already four inches taller than him, but the slope gave the man even more of an edge on height, towering over the soaked pair.

Leaning down, Joseph disregarded his brother’s presence, taking the swaying woman’s head in his hands and steadying her. His eyes bore into her as they had many before. 

John glanced to Cora, gauging her reaction to the man. He’d captured her gaze, holding her transfixed. It was as if they were existing in their own little world, communicating without speech. Cora’s own hands found their way to Joseph’s. Her teeth began to chatter. Even in a Blissed state, rendering her totally subservient, John could see her fear. He’d never seen her that way before. Always neutral, even when drowning. 

Cora closed her eyes, and Joseph’s thumbs pulled them back open.

“Look at me.” He whispered. “It’s nothing short of a miracle you were able to survive that crash. It was a miracle that you’re still here. God’s will has kept you alive.”

“I didn’t want to take you in-”

“Shh.”

Joseph pulled Cora close, draping an arm around her shoulders and pressing his lips to her head. It was an action he’d typically only reserved for his siblings, and an action that stirred confusion in John as he witnessed it. Only hours earlier, Joseph himself had reminded John not to single the Deputy out. Now, he was giving her preferential treatment. Confusion grew to quiet outrage. 

“Your heart is in the right place but you’ve been told to do all the wrong things. You need guidance, and we will guide you.” He cooed. His eyes drifted to John, then, locking him in place just as they had Cora. A hand gripped his shoulder, somewhere between encouraging and warning. “By the grace of God, we will show you the way. Go to the van.”

In a heartbeat, Cora was gone, rushing back off to the vehicle she’d arrived in.

John opened his mouth, fully prepared to enquire as to what the fuck had just happened, but Joseph was already stepping back, away from him. 

“We’ll talk later.” The Father declared, turning and heading back up to his own truck.

John was left alone, silenced. Furious.

“John?” One of his people approached, snapping him away from darkening thoughts.

“Call Nancy. Get her to fax me every detail she has on that Deputy.”

* * *

_**'PHONE LOCKED. WAIT 1 MINUTE TO RETRY. 1 ATTEMPT(S) REMAINING.'** _

The documents were awaiting him on his private desk when he’d returned home. Well, document, singular. One page. One fucking page, not even filled. 

' **Cora Stammos,**  
_**28\. I don’t know her birthday**_ _ **.**_ _ **: (**_  
_**Dyes her hair.**_  
_**No known friends.**_  
_**Doesn’t talk about family.**_  
_**No connections in Hope County.**_  
_**Holland Valley’s park ranger for 3 years.**_  
_**Most of the locals either don’t know her or don’t like her. Same goes for the office.**_  
_**Strict on following rules. Forgetful. Daydreams a lot. Jittery.**_  
_**Still lives in Missoula.**_  
_**Sleeps in the office sometimes**_.'

That was it. No substance. No gossip. No fears. No secrets to pry open. It was fucking useless. He’d have to pull any information he wanted directly from the Deputy herself. This wasn’t necessarily any fault of the dispatcher. She was good at what she did after so many decades, but she was still a Hope County local; her IQ matched the amount of teeth remaining in her skull. 

With a huff, John flicked the paper back down onto the desk. He’d just rounded the corner out of his office when a ring cut through the air. 

Shit. Joseph.

He peered back in, looking down at the machine. ' ** _NANCY - DISPATCH'_**. Relief crashed over him. He pressed the answer button.

“Nancy!” The man greeted, sitting against his desk, “Having a nice evening?”  
  
“ _Evening John! I’ve got-_ ”

“I’ve had a read through of the report you sent, and forgive me, but are there any pages missing? Did you accidentally send me the last one of several?”  
  
“... _No, I’m sorry. There really wasn’t that much I could remember about Stammos. She was so new. I do have-_ ”  
  
“Nothing off the top of your head?” John nearly whined, “The worst thing in this report is ‘unsociable workaholic’. Not exactly the best way to get to know a person.”

“ _You sound stretched, John._ ”

“Just trying to be in the know. Doesn’t help that I have an entire phone here that would give me everything if I just had the pass code.”

“... _Did you say you’ve got Stammos’s phone?”_

John’s heart stilled. “Nancy. Have you got good news for me?”

“ _She gave me the code in case she forgot it when she first ordered it.” Nancy went quiet for a moment, rummaging through wooden draws on the other end of the line. “Try...1496.”_

“You’re sure? I’m on my last attempt.”

“ _She forgot it a_ _**lot**_.”

John input the code. The lock screen lifted. His heart raced. It was almost too good to be true. The first fortune today that hadn’t come with some gross underside.

A breath of laughter shot from him, elated nonetheless. “You are an absolute pro. Cutting my confessions hours shorter than they need to be.”

“ _Well, as luck would have it, that’s why I’m calling.”_

John’s mouth zipped shut. No. No, no, don’t do it. 

He could hear the blood pumping through his ears now. His skin felt hot, core seizing in preparation for news that a tiny voice in the back of his mind tried to label as paranoia. 

“ _The convoy holding Merle and the Deputy was attacked.”_

Nope. That was it. His flesh was peeling from his bones.

“ _It appears that the cleansed were freed by Pastor Jerome.”_

“Nancy?” John bit into a smile, steadying his voice. He wanted to scream. “Next time, try leading with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eden's Gate may be a murder cult, but they take care of their own. Except for John. Nobody takes care of John.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Your feedback and support has been breathing life into this fic.
> 
> My tumblr is https://baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	4. Together

Silver Lake Trailer Park was a fucking dump, even before there had been corpses strung about the perimeter. It had been initially designed as a vacation spot in the 50’s; perfectly situated at the fork before the Whitetails and the Henbane for those summer family trips, back when Hope County had been expecting regular visitors. When none came and the lack of economic growth in the valley cried for cheaper accommodation, the trailer park quickly became a low rent space for the pensioners and the unemployed. 

Merle, amongst lamenting over a stolen truck, had made a big song and dance over how especially shitty the place looked after Eden’s Gate had come through; and yes, while the graffiti everywhere wasn’t much to look at, the foot-deep mud tracks in the roads and rusty car parts strewn around the property hadn’t just show up out of the blue. As much as he pointed the finger at the cult, the place had been in disrepair for decades.

But they had no choice but to call it home for a day. Sunrise was coming, they were being hunted, and this spot was both conveniently close to where the Pastor’s team had attacked the convoy, as well as already stripped clean by the Peggies. They had less chance being found in that park than they did camping out in the woods. 

Cora hadn’t remembered anything prior to walking through the trees that night. She’d been taken to the Cleansing with Merle, and John had been there. There was a vague recollection of Joseph, which churned her stomach to dwell on, and reaching too hard into her mind to find missing memories left her with cottonmouth. Merle remembered everything from the vans stopping, Pastor blowing the doors open and the firefight that ensued, but Cora had lost those hours. To be honest, she was still drifting in and out of acute focus well into the morning, even after Merle had fully returned to his raucous, spitting self. Apparently she’d been triple dosed with ‘Bliss’ after pissing John off, but withdrawal was a feeling she was familiar with. Whatever it was in Bliss that was messing with her, it was making good friends with the remnants of medication in her system.

At least, despite not being conscious of it, she’d had her bag and gun returned to her. That was a start, and when the three of them had arrived at the park, they’d each agreed to get a few hours rest before delving into talks of movement. Pick a trailer and get some shuteye, had been the Pastor’s advice. 

Cora wouldn’t go so far as to say she enjoyed people - but she appreciated the Pastor. He didn’t coddle. He spoke to them like he was leading a SWAT team or something; directing a pack of doped up kidnapees and armed resistance fighters through the dark woods like he’d done it a thousand times already. His expression refused to shift out of calm focus for hours. How long had he been preparing for a night like this, to have such an organised response?

How long had that bible he’d always clutched under his arm been a gun safe?

It didn’t matter, she decided. All that mattered was she didn’t have to waste her time searching for him. She could be back on her way to the Sheriff as soon as night fell again. 

Sleep didn’t come. Over-rested and hyper-vigilant as she was, the bloodstains on the carpet of her chosen trailer and the knowledge of human carcasses resting mere feet away was not helpful. All that came of trying to rest was a couple hours of dissociation and coming back to reality to find that she’d picked her fingernails raw, and chewed the shit out of the inside of her cheeks. 

Nothing constructive was coming from sitting around, so she refilled her canteen in the kitchenette and stepped back outside to explore the property. It had been stripped of resources; propane tanks removed from cookers, linens and closets all missing and empty. The centre of the park looked like it had been raided in the middle of a children’s party. Streamers strung, tables set with cardboard plates and plastic cups left abandoned beneath old gazebos.

She found Merle there, standing before a trio of covered bodies. Her skin bristled at the sight. The stench of old blood and spoiled meat filled her nostrils. It wasn’t great to behold, but at least none of them were small enough to resemble kids. 

They were quiet for a moment. The two of them, just observing the dead. 

Then Merle spoke, pointing to each of the bodies; “Sammy, Elliot, Danielle.”

“Your neighbours?” Cora asked, earning a nod. 

“They wanted to move. Eventually decided to hold their ground. Peggies were shooting ‘em down just as I was running up to Rae-Rae’s. Without Boomer, she was by herself. They’d already killed her by the time I showed.” Merle glanced at Cora for just a second, gaze hardened. “Little Peggie friend singin’ your praises in the van for being such a pacifist was the one who’d shot her.”

Cora said nothing. She’d already dwelled on the matter. It wasn’t her duty to make him feel better, and she wouldn’t have known how if it had been.

They fell back into silence. Minutes passed. 

“They smell really bad.” Cora finally spoke up. 

Merle blinked at her, dumbstruck. “Help me get rid of ‘em, then.”

They spent most of the day after that digging holes and burying bodies; trying to exhaust their wait by clearing the place of some of death’s presence. The Pastor had awoken some time in the afternoon and joined them to assist, but Cora distanced herself once he’d started muttering a eulogy. 

Merle later told Cora that the Pastor had been the one who’d advised the family to stay.

He sat out there with the family well into the evening, until the frogs began to call. 

* * *

Returning to her trailer, Cora filled up on a granola bar and filled her canteen one last time, taking a few gulps from the faucet for good measure. She’d had her head in the sink when the Pastor pulled the door open. Merle stood behind, kicking his feet in the dirt.

“Deputy. Have a moment?” Jeffries asked. He didn’t make a move until Cora gave a curt nod, wiping her mouth. 

She pulled her backpack onto the counter while the two men entered, tugging out the belt and gun that had been stuffed into the main pouch, and threaded them back around her waist. “Dutch said you might have an idea of where Sheriff Whitehorse might be. Heard anything?” 

“Last I spoke to him, he was up at the County Jail.” The Pastor paused to frown when the woman tugged the backpack closed and slung it over a shoulder. “You’re leaving.”

“Said it yourself. Cover of night’s safer to travel.”

“Together. As a team. Deputy, we need-”

“I can’t help you.”

Jeffries’ expression passed into disbelief. He crossed the trailer, stopping short of the TV in the corner and switched it on, beholding an image of John Seed smiling that sweet, fake smile of his at the camera. Over his shoulder, Cora could make out Hudson, mouth taped and hands bound. Mascara flowed down her cheeks and her shoulders shook soundlessly. Christ. 

“- _You will be offered atonement.”_ The Baptist’s voice rang through the speaker, “ _Don’t worry. You don’t need to do anything. We’ll come for you…-”_

Cora broke away from the screen. The sight of that guy made her feel like she couldn’t breathe. Seeing Hudson beside him was all the more suffocating.

Jeffries pointed at the TV in her periphery. “This has been playing on every channel, on loop, for 2 days. Every piece of press out there is geared toward joining them. It’s war propaganda.”

She held her gaze at the window beside his head. He deliberately moved, trying to catch her attention.

“A week ago, I watched a single truck go down to that lake. Last night? 5 of them. People are allowing themselves to be taken, because they don’t think there’s anyone out there fighting back.”

“And you freed them.”

“Shit, kid, you don’t think they won’t be moving double-time after we got busted out?” Merle interjected. “Over two dozen got away from ‘em last night. Those people are gonna tell their friends that Pastor Jerome and his team saved us. That there’s a resistance forming.”

The Pastor nodded, crossing his arms. “Eden’s Gate will be quick to correct them. John Seed won’t stand for embarrassment.”

“That big brother’s got him so tight by the balls, he’d burn the vans himself rather than answer for the people in ‘em getting away.”

Cora huffed at Merle’s comment, slipping her other arm through the spare loop on her bag. 

Jeffries, sensing her movement, raised a hand to halt her. 

“We could use your help, Deputy. We need to keep hitting them. The more we do, the more people we can bring hope to.” He said, voice low, almost a plea. 

“Please stop asking.” Cora replied. Her throat felt dry again.

“You’re the only law enforcement we have left down here. We need you.”

Something began to bubble in her chest. Not quite irritation. Anxiety. Panic. Dread. It stiffened her arms and set her jaw. The lecture from last night twitched through her brain like a flip book. _Anyone else. Why’d it have to be her who got away?_

Her expression turned into a scowl. “We _**need**_ the Sheriff.”

“Jesus, Dep, where’s your sense of fucking community?” Merle spat. “People are dying.”

“This isn’t my community.” Cora finally snapped, lip curling into a snarl. “We’re strangers. My duty is to find my superior and follow his orders. He’s the one who'll know how to help you. It's none of my business.”

She passed them and stepped out of the trailer, into the evening air.

“You shouldn’t have taken the fucking job, then-”

“Merle.” Jeffries growled, shooting the man a warning look before turning his attention back to Cora. His face softened. “Please. I implore you.”

Cora scrunched her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. She stopped walking and turned back around. “I can’t do this, Pastor. The best I can do for you is find you someone who can.”

Jeffries paused. After a moment, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and he nodded. 

“We’ll be in Fall’s End. Good luck, Deputy.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, and headed off into the night, leaving the two men behind. 

It was justified, she thought. It was honest. They’d be fine. The Pastor was a good leader, and if he kept on, the other residents would respond to him. Between that man and the Sheriff, they might stand a chance of getting organised enough to push back. 

She approached the bridge back to the Henbane region at patrol changeover once more. Faith Seed’s region, dense with wild forest and jagged hills. Looming over the horizon, the statue of the Father stood. A shiver ran through her at the sight.

Just as Cora had stepped foot on the wood of the bridge, a whine sounded from behind her in the trees. Checking over her shoulder, she found that same heeler from the pumpkin farm emerging from the brush, tip toeing toward her. Her head tilted, and his did the same. 

What had Merle called him? Boomer?

By instinct, the woman dropped to one knee, holding out a hand. “Hey, buddy.”

The dog immediately trotted up to her, confidently investigating the Deputy with his wet nose. Pine needles and dried dirt clung to the bandanna tied around his neck. A dog-sized american flag. Hand made. His owner must’ve loved him when she was alive.

“All by yourself, now? I get it.” Cora mused, scratching around that bandanna while Boomer’s nose tracked her face, tail whipping back and forth. No words exchanged, and they were already acquainted. 

She straightened out, rising to a stand, and jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the bridge. Boomer’s ears pricked up. 

“I’m going this way, if you are too.” 

Turning back, she resumed her trek along the bridge. The tap of claws on wood followed behind.

The corner of her mouth twitched. She was quick to correct it back into her usual frown. 

* * *

Family meetings.

Joy.

It wasn’t that John didn’t love getting to see his siblings all in one place; in fact, watching the three of them take their favourite seats at his dining table while he erased marker ink from a whiteboard typically presented him with some of the more positive emotions on his spectrum. It was more that these days, their weekly reunions were so geared toward the Collapse that they hardly felt like a _**family** **gathering**_ at all anymore. 

Back when they’d first built the ranch, he and his brothers would sit together and watch all the old movies they’d been banned from ever seeing as kids. Jacob would show them crappy sitcoms he’d watched and re-watched in hotel rooms overseas and in hospitals while awaiting deployment, and occasionally, John would get to brag about having met a director or a starring cast member thanks to his network. Joseph would always chide them for their materialism, but using aged media had been a form of re-connection for the three. A means of catching up on lost years, as if they’d sat together and watched the same programs in John’s teens - as if Jacob had been home with them - as if Joseph hadn’t been living on the streets. 

Their current Faith had come along when Eden’s Gate was more well-established. She’d never left the county, and she was still a teenager when they found her. She didn’t have any stories of her own, but she was so full of wanderlust and idolisation for the Father that everything that came out of the three brothers’ mouths seemed to amaze her. Having her present was like sugar coating on everything. Joseph adored her. Jacob swore he didn’t care for her, but John knew better than to believe him. In John’s personal opinion, she’d been his favourite Faith. 

The past few weeks had turned seeing their faces into something less of a happy story, however, and more of a competition. A race to see who was making the most progress in preparing their respective gates. A fight to be the Herald to most impress the Father. Normally, John thrived in this environment, but with the fucking **_Deputy_** on the run, he always seemed to be running in last place lately. He'd hoped that unlocking that phone of hers would've brought him some good news. Something to smear her with, and yet, nothing. The most intimate social device in the modern world, and the woman had no photos, no music, and over 300 messages sitting in her inbox. He'd been yet to go through them after last night's panic, but it wasn't a hopeful sign. 

Finishing up, John took his usual place at the table and looked around at his siblings. Their greetings had been quick tonight. No tea or snacks. Minimal banter. Just a quick hug traded amongst each of them. He wished it wasn’t so rushed nowadays. He missed taking the time to observe everyone.

Jacob, arms crossed, slouched in his chair. Attempting a micro nap before they all got down to business. John wished he would have bothered to clean himself prior to arriving. There was still blood caked around his cuticles, and a fine coating of dirt smudged over his scarred face. The blisters and burns on his forearms looked raw and wet. Painful, bordering on infection. If they hurt, the man made no indication of it, but they looked worse than they did last week. 

Faith, sitting on her hands, kicking her legs like a child. She’d stay quiet tonight, as usual, and Joseph would give her the pardon for it. Women were typically silenced in conversation when they were outnumbered by men, but John knew better than to assume that dreamy smile up at the ceiling LEDs was an example of Faith spacing out. He knew that every word he and his brothers spoke were getting logged and filed away in her brain for whatever future purpose necessary. She was a raven in the trees, hearing all.

Joseph, hunched over a notepad, scribbling thoughts at the head of the table, back to the fireplace. When he was ready, he set down his pen and interlaced his fingers, but his gaze didn’t lift from his hands. He and John hadn’t spoken about the _**incident**_ , yet, and John was apprehensive about stepping out of line should it be brought up in front of their other siblings tonight. 

The man looked up and over to Jacob, who seemed to sense the eyes on him. 

“Any news on the Whitetails?” The Father asked.

Their eldest brother stood immediately, plucking a marker from the board and commencing his scribbling of what was supposed to be a map. Despite the amount of practice he had drawing them, John always found them incomprehensible. 

“Picture this is the upper North-West region. Gate’s up here.” He paused to draw an X, and then a large circle below it. “We’re condensing the militia’s comfort zone to a 5 mile radius down South. Unlikely to be any further East than the Moccassin…”

The mountain of a man proceeded to launch into a half-hour demonstration of strategy and military lingo that, with the occasional glance at Faith and Joseph’s politely nodding heads, was less comprehensible to the average person than Jacob expected. It was always like this. He spoke like a soldier amongst soldiers.

Finally, when he capped the marker, Joseph leaned forward.

“Bottom line?” He asked.

“Bottom line, Eli’s days are numbered. He’s got a pack of civilians doing hit and runs on empty crates because he believes every bit of intel he hears. They’re exhausted and they’re pinned. They’ll be wiped out before they become any more than an annoyance.” Jacob answered confidently, earning a satisfied nod.

“Tremendous work.” The Father said softly, returning to his scribbling for a moment. “Our family is safer with each passing week thanks to your efforts.”

John and Faith exchanged a glance when Joseph’s gaze had been shifted. Jacob had made the cut, above and beyond. They needed to fight for second place. 

“Faith, dear?”

Shit.

“The Cougars haven’t made a peep in a few weeks.” The woman smiled, not bothering to stand from her seat. She was the favourite and she knew it. “There are a few more stubborn souls that have shut themselves in the County Jail, but they’ll get restless soon enough, and they’ll respond to the call. The Marshal’s changed the hearts of one or two already.”

One or two. It was enough for Joseph to fix her with a little smile of his own

“Down in Holland Valley?” He didn’t even look at John when he announced the Baptist’s turn.

“The Reaping’s picking up speed,” John began, “Starting from the top of the valley down, we’re combing in dedicated teams for resources, appliances, and sinners. Numbers are up 2 dozen since yesterday, but with more and more reaching Atonement, the increase will be exponential in the coming weeks.”

“And last night?”

Jacob and Faith’s heads whipped around, eyes on John now. Even Joseph had turned to him. His gut twisted. Of course their ‘talk’ had to be carried out in front of the other Heralds. _Don’t mention the drowning... don’t mention the drowning..._

“What happened last night?” Faith asked, feigning worry. “Is everything okay?”

“There was a hiccup-”

“A handful of reaping vans were attacked.” Joseph’s voice silenced him. 

Jacob’s brow furrowed. “Attacked.”

John thanked his lucky stars he’d prepared to be grilled before the family. It didn’t lessen his annoyance, but at least he wouldn’t flounder. Not mentioning his outburst was also a relief.

“Pastor Jerome thinks he has the clout to lead a little uprising.” He explained, straightening out in his seat. “Whether or not he thinks blowing up a van or two will convince anyone that he’s suddenly competent enough to lead the community again, his lack of presence in Fall’s End means that their only remaining figureheads are a pack of bar workers and cooks who still have no clue that half the town population are with the Project. Jerome’s divided attention only means that the Fall’s End will be under control within a few weeks, maximum.”

His defence seemed to quell the stirring doubt amongst his family. Jacob looked satisfied. Faith had returned to her gazing. Joseph’s eyes lingered on him, but they’d grown gentle. Understanding.

“I’m sorry about the Deputy. I know you put a lot of effort in to secure her, and it wasn’t your fault that she was set loose again.” Joseph offered. There was just enough softness, enough acknowledgement in his words that John almost threw himself into the man’s arms. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone far, but if she’s with Jerome, then the two of them could be a problem for you down the line.”

Faith hummed then, shoulders squaring, face brightening. “If it brings any hope to the table, a blonde woman and a cattle dog were spotted down by the river, headed North-East.”

“Excellent. I have no doubts about you taking the reins if she’s straying onto your path.” Joseph’s smile widened, breaking his gaze away to their sister. “Perhaps a more _**gentle**_ hand might be more effective.”

There it was. Recognition of what he’d done during the Cleansing. Just like that, the sentiment in John was uprooted. He was back to feeling quietly humiliated. 

Faith, on the other hand, basked in her new glory. “I’m confident that she’ll find me without much fuss.”

John snorted at that. “Soon as she sees all the Bliss you introduced to the territory, you can be sure she’ll come knocking. If there’s one way to make a conservationist angry, you’ve found it.”

“Hold on.” Jacob piped up, finally, swivelling his head and peering at John out of the corner of his eye. “That Deputy. The little one. _**That’s**_ the tree-hugger from the parks department who was always crawling up your ass.”

“That’s the one.” John replied, rolling his jaw. Something humorous played on his eldest brother’s face. John knew that look. It was rare for Jacob to crack. A glint of a smile on the man was akin to a belly laugh, and right now, the humour was aimed at teasing his little brother.

“The one who threatened to write a letter to Michelle Obama if the flock didn’t stop washing their clothes in the river.”

“The very same.”

“The one you used to wanna-”

“That I don’t recall.” John snapped, heat creeping up his neck. Jacob flashed teeth. A silent snicker.

“Please.” Joseph intervened, leaning between the two of them, fixing both Jacob and John with a hard look. “If you’re both done, keep your interests vested in your responsibilities and your focus centred on your missions.”

Jacob inclined his head, expression sobering. He said nothing more.

“Yes, Joseph.” John muttered.

“Any talk of the Deputy is now up to Faith.”

John’s gaze flickered to Faith. She was delighted. Smug. Superior. She’d overtaken Jacob as the best performer of the night, leaving John in dead last place. He needed to take her down a peg. Whatever it took to settle the bubbling fury in his chest. Anything to wipe that look off her face. 

“She’ll do fine.” The Siren declared, pushing her seat back and rising to a stand. The three men followed suit. “Hopefully next time we all see each other, she’ll be with the Project.”

“That seems like a good place to leave tonight.” Joseph finalised, stacking his notes and turning to John to pull the man into his arms. Despite his soured mood, John put his indignation aside to return the gesture as purely as he could.

The goodbye hugs were often the best ones. Knowing that they were going to be parted again for another week always felt like a tiny reminder of their initial separation. It was a chance to show one last piece of appreciation for each other while they were in the same room. 

“Get some rest. You’ve worked for it. It’ll set you straight.” Joseph murmured into his ear, giving him one last squeeze.

“Thank you, Father.” 

Next in line for John was Jacob, who grabbed the man by the back of his head and pulled him to his chin. It wasn’t a complete hug, but it was the best Jacob could do in terms of affection. Paternal, but distanced. Macho.

“I was just makin’ fun.” The Soldier chuckled, pulling away to indulge in an amused scowl from John. They each gave the other a tap on the shoulder before parting; Jacob turning to Joseph and John spinning around to find Faith bounding toward him.

She took his face in her hands and planted a kiss on each cheek, her habit on prancing on her toes boosting her up higher than him. That was his least favourite thing about her; she reminded him that had he been one inch shorter, he’d be the smallest of the Seeds. Nevertheless, he mimicked her, grinning against her long fingers. 

“Even if you had trouble, I’ll catch that soul for you.”

Her words were somewhere between a reassurance and a loving declaration of war. That was fine. He didn’t mind.

John’s grin didn’t waver. He leaned close, over her shoulder, sandy hair brushing his nose.

“If she’s headed North-East, she’s on her way to the Jail.” He whispered.

He could feel her breathing slow for just a second. 

She stepped back, smiling ear-to-ear, and when she followed her brothers out the front door, John could’ve sworn there was some extra speed to her steps.

He waved after the trio.

Subtle victories. They couldn’t go understated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone blow kisses at Boomer. He deserves them all. 
> 
> Cora encounters yet another candidate for father figure, and John's lawn gets pissed on by his family once again!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading! It really brightens my day to hear that you're enjoying this work and these characters. 
> 
> My tumblr is https://baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	5. Keep This Brief, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is a two-parter, making the title an oxymoron. It's also a pun, which I hope you'll enjoy if you find it.

Sporadic gunshots echoed through the trees while Cora made her way along the riverbank, Boomer plonking along through the shallows beside her. It had been like this for the past day or so, drawing closer to the sounds of conflict that she could only assume came from the County Jail. Occasionally, there would be a stretch of silence; no birds chirping or elk calling. Even the wind in the trees seemed to halt in those hours. Then, it could be on again, louder with each wave. 

The goal was to get inside that prison, and to find the Sheriff, and every method she tried to scrap together was coming up short. She wasn’t a soldier. She’d had academy training, sure, but streamlined learning didn’t really hold a candle to any kind of spec ops knowledge. Announcing her presence via radio was too risky this far from an ally. Any eavesdropping Peggies could easily just snatch her again. Scaling a 30 foot wall didn’t exactly sound like a dream, either.

The only way she knew how to enter the building was by walking through the front door. She was just going to have to bank on nobody shooting at her while she did so. 

They staggered their pace while another round of shots tapered back to quiet, close enough to leave the woods and approach from the main road. At the very least, no gunfire meant no Peggies to run into.

Rounding through the trees, Cora and Boomer emerged from the mouth of the forest and rejoined the tarred road. Maybe about a hundred feet ahead, the granite turnoff announcement jutted out of the grass. Even from a distance, the carcasses that had been strewn over the top of the slab were obvious. Limbs dangled over the sign: ‘ _ **HOPE COUNTY JAIL.**_ ’

Following the bend didn’t reward with any more of an enthusiastic sight; the jail sat, strong and domineering as it had always been, but now, the place was a fortress. Skeletons of burned cars piled up around the parking lot in a makeshift barricade, smouldering with heat and wisps of white smoke. Uniformed Peggies littered the ground while civilians hung from street lamps. The road was wet with blood. 

It looked post-apocalyptic.

Cora took a step forward, and in an instant, a bullet whizzed past her head. It’s source crackled through the air, and Boomer yipped, skittering back to the woman’s side at the warning. 

“ _Close enough._ ” A woman’s voice rang over the loudspeakers, owner unseen. “ _Peggie or refugee?_ ”

Cora huffed. “Neither.” She called back. “I’m here for Sheriff Whitehorse.”

Silence followed. Contemplative. 

It was another minute before the speakers whistled back to life again, pulling Cora’s creeping attention away from the bodies at her feet.

“ _Holy shit._ ”

The voice of her superior brought with it a surge of relief in her chest. 

“ _Rook, is that you?_ ”

The squeal of rusted metal sounded from inside the jail, and the front entrance swung open - their cue to enter. 

The front yard of the building was more or less the same as she’d remembered it from previous visits, only this time around, there were 100% more armed civilians than usual pacing the premises. Some paid cautious attention to her arrival. Others, pointed avoidance. Every one of them, exhausted.

A voice from above drew Cora’s gaze away from the yard and up to the wall.

“Sure could’ve used you half an hour ago.” Whitehorse grunted, already clambering down a ladder, still in his work uniform. He landed stiff and heavy, shuffling over to his subordinate and clapping a hand over her shoulder. Cora didn’t shy away from the touch. She was pleased enough to see him alive that any discomfort was overridden. Tired, but alive.

“I believe you.” The Deputy replied, giving him a once-over. “You look like hell, sir.”

Whitehorse chuckled, airy, humour eclipsed by awareness. His hand didn’t leave her shoulder until a woman dropped down from the wall behind him and stepped into their bubble. Up close, despite her commanding tone, she didn’t look any older than 25.

“Tracey, meet Deputy Stammos.” Whitehorse stepped back, allowing the two to shake hands. “The one that got away, twice.”

“Dutch’s kept us filled in on what’s happening down in the valley, to the extent that he can.” Tracey announced, fixing Cora with a hard look before passing between the officers and heading for the staff entrance to the building. “Ever since you pulled that shit with John, we’ve been getting hit twice as hard and twice as often by those cult pricks.”

Cora raised an eyebrow at the Sheriff, expectant.

He leaned to the side, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Be friendly. Tracey’s in charge around here.” 

With that, he followed after the other woman and inclined his head for Cora to come along. After parting from Boomer with a quick scratch, she acquiesced, leaving the dog outside.

Tracey pulled the door open and led the others into the block. The entire admin area had been turned into a makeshift hospital; desks removed and replaced with stretchers, most of them occupied by wounded. As they continued toward the rear office, Cora glanced down at one boy in a cot. Older teens, exiting puberty, probably. He was skinny, bony features accentuated by a shaven head. Covered in sweat and shivering. Eyes scrunched shut in fitful sleep. 

“That’s a whole can of worms you especially don’t wanna open, Rook.” Whitehorse advised over her shoulder, ushering her into the next room and shutting the door behind them. 

“Tracey, can you _**please**_ wear your pin-”

“Bigger things, Virgil.” Tracey groaned back at the presence already occupying the office. 

Balding, and bespectacled, the Mayor of Hope County, Virgil Minkler paced behind his desk, still wringing his hands at Tracey with a pleading look. It wasn’t until he noticed Cora that he reset his composure and straightened out, albeit nervously. Cora had met him a few times in the past. In such a small county, local government tended to be well-acquainted with itself. He was skittish by nature, typically bureaucratic in that respect. Demanding, but whiny about it. His presence was just as annoying as any other government official, but he cared about his constituents and about Hope County, and that was enough to hold her respect. 

“Deputy Stammos.” The Mayor stammered, swallowing back the lecture he’d had at the ready for Tracey. “Oh, it’s good to see you alive. Gave us all a scare when we heard you’d been taken to one of those Cleansings.”  
  
“Dutch was worried sick. Demanding to know if we’d seen you.” Whitehorse added.

Of course they’d been communicating with Dutch. She hadn’t spoken to him since she left the bunker - she’d thought it logical to keep off of the radio just in case anyone was listening, but apparently, everyone else seemed to be chatting away about her movements. It was irritating. Worse still, Dutch calling the County Jail and lamenting to her **_boss_** of all people was a tidbit she could’ve gone without. He was like an embarrassing father, monitoring her from a distance. 

“Pastor Jeffries hasn’t been in contact, then?” Cora asked.

All three of the others shook their heads.

“Only ones manning Fall’s End are Mary May and Casey.” Tracey explained. “We haven’t heard from Jerome in a while.”

“Then he and Merle are probably still chasing John’s recruits down.” Cora said, crossing her arms. 

“Sounds like Holland Valley’s pulling together a revolt, then?” 

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

For a moment, no one replied. Whitehorse and Virgil exchanged a look while Tracey’s eyes narrowed at the Deputy. 

“Come again?” Virgil finally spoke up, “You’re not here to help us?” 

“I already said it outside.” Cora shrugged, pointing over her shoulder. “I’m here for the Sheriff.”

Whitehorse, meanwhile, cast a look up to the ceiling in exasperation. “Ah, shit-”

“S’cuse me? You come all the way up here, bringing that target on your back with you, and you wanna drag off the one fucking person keeping us alive?” Tracey bit, shoulders squaring.

“Doesn’t matter. Holland Valley needs help.” The Deputy muttered.

“ _ **We**_ need help!”

“Tracey-”

“Oh fuck off, Virgil!”

“Would the two of you mind if I spoke to my Deputy in private?” Whitehorse spoke up firmly. It was posed as a question, but he was already opening the door again, ready to leave the room with Cora hot on his heels. 

Neither waited for a response, and as soon as the door was closed behind them, Whitehorse rounded on Cora.

“What’d I just tell you? I said ‘be friendly’.”

“I **_was_** being friendly. I was being honest.” She defended. Whitehorse shook his head, resuming his march and leading her into an empty office that stank of rubbing alcohol. Dead plants littered the desks and filled plastic tubs, scattered around the room. 

“Rook, it’s not that I’m not over the moon to see you.” Whitehorse sighed. “Just...tell me why you’re here.”

Cora set her pack down by a desk and crossed her arms, resting a shoulder against the wall. “John Seed’s sweeping the whole valley. People are being drugged, taken-”

“Jesus, you don’t think the same isn’t happening up here? The Henbane’s a Bliss factory. People are losing their minds. From the sounds of it, Holland Valley’s got a hell of a lot easier than the folks up here.”

The Deputy’s jaw flexed in aggravation. She hadn’t thought that far. 

“The Pastor needs help-”

“Then why didn’t you stay if it’s so goddamn important?”

Cora silenced herself, red-faced and scowling at the floor. A jumble of words formed in her throat, but none surfaced. 

Whitehorse softened. Another sigh escaped him, crestfallen rather than irate. He approached the woman, badge at her eye-level. She refused to look at him. 

“I don’t know how-” She started, voice catching in frustration and discomfort, diminishing in volume, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t. I’m not like you, or Pratt, or Hudson. I can’t just wing it like you guys can.”

“Y’know, when I offered you this job, it was because everything you do, you do by the book. You cross all your T’s and you keep your head down.” Whitehorse’s hand came to rest on her shoulder again. “Not the biggest people person in the world, but I don’t think there’s anyone in the county who cares about the integrity of this place more than you. I know you don’t like the limelight, Rook, but when you agreed to work for me, you made an oath to serve this community.”

Cora finally caved to making eye-contact with the man. With over a foot’s difference between them, it wasn’t particularly comfortable. 

Whitehorse’s gaze was earnest. A glimmer of a smile tugged at his mouth. “As luck would have it, this is my first holy war, too. There’s no textbook on this. We’re not city cops - there’s no further up the chain we can take this. It’s do or die.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“What I mean is: you’re gonna have to start wingin’ it, Rook.” Whitehorse gave her shoulder a squeeze before backing away. “My hands are tied here. The Cougars are the only thing keeping the Henbane from falling completely into Faith’s hands, and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve helped these people.”

That was it. Cora’s face brightened. The path was clear.

“So you’re saying if I help you take control of the Henbane, you’ll come back to Fall’s End?”

The older man paused, grimacing. “I can’t see that far ahead into the future, Rook, but sure. There’s a ton of work that needs doing up here, though.”

“Just point me in the right direction, sir.”

“...Alright.” He grunted. “Few days ago, we got a call from Moonflower Trailer Park.”

The path was clear, but Cora no longer wanted to take it. That psychopath, Boshaw? She hadn’t met the man personally, but his penchant for arson made him well-known, specifically through the medium of arrest warrants. Pratt was normally the one who took calls to the Henbane region, and the stories that returned with him were...unsavoury.

“You’re sending me on a house call.” She deadpanned.

“Yes, I am.”

“But he’s Pratt’s.”

“Well, Pratt’s a little indisposed at the moment, Rook. If you can deal with paying one of the Seeds a visit every week, a once-off with the local loon can’t hurt much worse.”

It wasn’t as if she could refuse after the deal they’d just struck, but knowing that didn’t make her any less annoyed at the situation. 

Cora grunted her dissatisfaction, tugging her bag back over her shoulders. “Fine. How do I get there?”

The Sheriff made his way out of the office, heading back to the building’s entrance, and she trudged after him. 

“Just keep following the main road North and you’ll find it. Can’t miss the smell.” Whitehorse explained. His march came to a sudden halt at the front door, causing Cora to bump into his back. He spun around, expression suddenly grave. “Do _**not** _talk to anyone except Boshaw. If you think you see the Marshal out there, you turn tail and you run.”

“Sir, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more.”

“I mean it.” He pressed. “Things are different up here. Be careful.”

Cora had tuned him out after the first warning. A second one was just added sentiment, and she had no use for it. Sliding around the man, she pushed the door open with her shoulder and fixed him with a firm nod.

“Start packing, Sheriff. I’m gonna have you out of here by next week.”

Then, she was off, calling Boomer back to her side with a whistle and making her way back to the main road.

Quick and dirty. Just a bee-line up to Moonflower and back. No nonsense. No sight-seeing. No chit-chat. She’d be back by nightfall at the latest; one job down, however many it took to go. This was fine. This was workable. Set tasks, she knew how to deal with. She was feeling god. Feeling confident. In control. Everything was looking-

“ _Psst!_ ”

“Hm?”

Cora turned around, only to receive a face-full of powder. Spluttering, she stumbled back. Familiar dizziness clouded her brain, blurring her vision. 

She hit the ground before she’d even registered that she was falling.

A giggle chimed above her. A woman.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

* * *

  
  


Being in the city never failed to remind John of just how much he hated the grid.

At one point in time, back before Joseph had come to his rescue, skyscrapers and clubs had been his playground. He’d been one of the lucky ruling class; the top 1%, and even then, it had been the bane of his existence. Missoula hardly came close to his youth’s definition of a city. Whereas Atlanta had been crushed with constant developments and new high-rises, the tallest building in Missoula was 11 storeys and part of the local college campus.

Greenery was everywhere, here. It was the Garden City. The pavement was spacious and the Montana scenery was visible on the horizon no matter where one stood. It shouldn’t have reminded him so much of Atlanta, but as he strode along the path to City Hall, catching glimpses of cubicle office blocks and stacked windows still managed to make him feel like his face was going to melt off. 

He hadn’t even been here an hour, and he already wanted to be back home in Hope County. There were no corporations there. No seedy underbelly. Even the Republican hicks could be taken at face-value. The only predators to worry about had been the wild animals. No one person was any more dangerous than himself, his family, and his flock, and with that knowledge always came security. 

Recently, however, that security had been threatened, and for that reason, John had decided to use the relaxing day off the Father had given him by seeking out ways of eradicating said threat. Yes, Joseph had advised him to keep away from the Deputy now that she was Faith’s responsibility. Yes, he could’ve used this time to instead catch up on the sleep debt he’d been accruing over the past few weeks, and yes, maybe fixating on this particular sinner wasn’t the most personally helpful habit in the world, but he could think of just as many counter arguments. One, Faith was incompetent. Two, less sleep meant more work, and more work meant more achievement and recognition. Three, it was the Deputy’s own fault that she’d drawn his focus, not his. It was her fault he'd been marching across City Hall, intimidating officials into signing papers and manually stamping forged land-ownership files when backs were turned. It was Joseph’s strange fixation on keeping the woman alive that fed John’s own fascination, and that was **_her_** doing. It was her lack of a footprint that pushed him to have bureaucrats scour the system for her presence in the hopes of finding something to smear her with, just so that the fables floating around Fall’s End about the supposed brewing rebellion headed by Pastor Jerome, Merle Briggs, and the wayward Deputy would fall on deaf ears. 

It was her fault that he’d left City Hall feeling more accomplished than he had in weeks, stack of illegally obtained (but morally justified, really) private information in-hand and ready to go for Confession should he need it. 

It was _**her**_ fault that he was currently schmoozing her landlord into letting him into her apartment without a key. 

“So, you’re her..?” The pudgy little man before him trailed, frowning at John’s pristine smile. 

“I uh, don’t think it’s got a label yet.” John replied, feigning embarrassment, earning an uncomfortable look of realisation at what he was alluding to. “But as I said, she sent me to pick up a few things. Only problem is, I went and forgot the key, and with Hope County being so far out…”

The landlord clicked his tongue at that. “I’ll give her a call-”

“She answers your calls?” John grinned. 

A small chuckle. That did it. Common ground established. A mutual pet peeve. John was no longer a stranger.

“Might be difficult, though.” He continued, tucking a hand into his rear pocket and withdrawing the Deputy’s phone. To further his point, the Baptist unlocked it in front of the man. “I’d be the one picking up.”

Just like that, the landlord was sold. With a tight-lipped smile and an incline of his head, the man disappeared behind his door for a moment, re-emerging with a set of keys and dropping them into John’s already waiting fingers. 

“Just leave them outside when you leave.” The man said, and despite having zero intentions of doing so, John departed with a promise to return them.

The apartment itself was on a shared block with the landlord. Second-storey of a two-storey building, right at the very end of the lot. The whole place was cheap and out of time from the outside - probably an old motel that got flipped into private dwellings at some point. 

Jamming the key into the door, John pushed on the wood and let himself in, allowing the swell of excitement in his chest just a split-second of his time before he got to business. 

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Soil. Pine needles. Cinnamon. A familiar smell, everywhere, enveloping him as he stepped into the small space. He’d never really noticed a particular scent to the Deputy back in their previous encounters, but now, outside of the county, it seemed to register; she smelled like Holland Valley. Maybe with a chai latte rolled into the mix.

The next most obvious thing was the _**plants**_.

They were fucking everywhere. On every flat surface, including the walls, leaves and stems taking up more than their fair share of space. John’s nose scrunched at the sight. 

He started his investigation with the kitchen. Bare, save for yet more ceramic pots and a large collection of reminder post-its. The drawers were empty and the freezer was full of microwave meals. The refrigerator? A couple of light beers. 

A disappointing start. 

On his way through the living space, however, something caught John’s eye. The trashcan. It sat open, full. 

The Book of Joseph sat atop the pile.

John choked, nearly spitting bile at the sight. A precious item. Something so sacred, and bestowed _by him_ , no less. Discarded.

Of course. It had been too much to hope that the woman would even consider reading it. 

A buzzing in his coat pulled John’s attention away from his brewing bitterness. The brick phone he kept on his person strictly for family communication hummed away, and John couldn’t help the quizzical expression at the caller I.D: _**'**_ _ **FAITH’**_

What could she want? 

John clicked the answer key. At least he’d have some company while he scouted this empty place. He held the device to his ear as he moved through the living room. Eyes scanning over sci-fi DVDs and documentaries.

“Sister.”

“ _John!_ ” The woman chirped on the other end of the line. “ _I tried calling the ranch. Didn’t Joseph tell you to take a break?_ ”

A probe, disguised as curiosity. The Father’s little flying monkey at work. 

“I’m out.” He answered truthfully. “There were some loose ends that needed tying in Missoula, but as of today, Holland Valley is officially under private ownership of Eden’s Gate.”

“ _You work so hard for us. I don’t think I’ve been to the city in...almost a year._ ” Faith’s tone turned thoughtful, dreamy. “ _Having fun?_ ”

More probing. Attempting to lure him into admitting tiredness. Frustration. Anything to be perceived as insubordinate. It annoyed him as much as it brought a flicker of pride, hearing her use the same tricks he'd taught her.

“Paying a visit to our dear old Deputy Stammos’s place to get a gauge on what sort of sinner we’re working with. As much fun as that can be.” John mused, flicking at a leaf that draped over a bookcase. Nothing but non-fiction textbooks. “It’s like Jumanji in here. You’d love it.”

“ _Oh, I haven’t seen that since I was little._ ” Faith swooned. “ _You shouldn’t worry so much about the Deputy, you know._ ”

“Not all of us get to prance around in the grass all day, Faith. Some actually contribute.”

“ _Well, as luck would have it...guess who made the leap._ ”

A pang of irritation hit John at that news. So, she'd been caught. What followed was speculation. Rapid-fire considerations of what would happen to the Deputy now. Would Faith be allowed to keep her? Would she be made to take the Pilgrimage or be turned into one of those dreadful Angels? Stammos was too disagreeable to accept Faith’s nurturing. The latter seemed more likely. Maybe Jacob would take the woman as a bonus to the Heeler; wring her out through his trials and put her petulance to better use. He might kill her outright, or their similar temperaments would find her in his favour. John wouldn’t lie - the thought of that Deputy as his brother’s attack dog left him tasting metal. 

He’d almost hoped that the woman would manage to evade Faith. That the Siren’s incompetence would land their target back in his hands. She’d been a handful, yes, but John was more than willing to prove himself after his last attempt. He had unfinished business, now. Personal; and the way it hovered over him was grating. Not only had it been a personal project of his, but seeing the interest Joseph had taken in her? This was _**his**_ soul to reap. 

“ _She was hesitant at first._ ” Faith went on, giving up on waiting for John to pull himself out of his thoughts. “ _Stubborn, even in the Bliss. Was she always that cranky with you?_ ”

Always. 

“Not always. Depends on if you annoy her.”

John made his way to the single bedroom. Once again, plants everywhere. A dresser sat on the far side of the room, littered with hair products and tagged library books. The bed was unmade. Beside it, a small table with a heart-shaped photo frame. Finally. A weak point. He approached, plucking the item up and investigating, hopeful to find an image of a romantic partner or family member. 

**_It was a photo of John fucking Muir_.**

One corner of his mouth tugged, insisting upon a crooked smile despite his disappointment. Of course. Who else? No family photos, no friend collages. Zero windows to her soul barring the barest facts that he already knew. This wasn’t just a matter of a boring person with a coincidentally empty life. It was deliberate.

He wanted to know why. Why she held no mementos. Why her phone was filled with unanswered calls and texts. Why she made a point of cultivating no friendships. What could make a person so self-indulgent so as to be in constant disagreement with the world around them? 

“ _-...John?_ ”

John flinched. “I’m here.”

“ _I was just saying - by the time we said goodbye, she was all smiles._ ”

Two more things aggravated him there. 

One, Deputy Stammos did not _**smile**_. It was arrogant of Faith to suggest the it was somehow her influence, rather than the scopolamine she pumped into her recruits that changed the woman’s disposition. Two - _**G** **oodbye?!**_

“You let her go.” There was no hiding the exasperation in his tone. Setting the frame back down, John spun on his heel and made for the dresser. “After all that meddling, you set her loose on the county again.”

“ _I’m not taking people against their will, John. My followers come to me because they want to._ ”

A lie and an attack, bundled into one. She was on the defensive. She’d overestimated her ability and now she had no choice but to stick to her guns. 

John sighed, trapping the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he tugged the top drawer open. It was the last resort, but the universal socks and underwear space always acted as extra safekeeping for secrets. Pot, toys, documents; maybe weapons. It was disrespectful to go rummaging around in someone’s intimates, sure, but after finding the Book of Joseph buried under a pile of trash, John felt it only reasonable to stoop to the same level of petty. Faith liked to gloat her so-called moral approach to recruitment; John was at least honest with himself.

Sometimes it was just easier to cut to the core of someone after you’ve seen their anal beads. 

“Faith, the Father entrusted you with this task.” He reminded the Siren, immediately going for the back of the drawer. Nothing but an expired passport. Disappointing. He pocketed the little book, continued his search nonetheless. “Which means he trusts you to succeed-”

“ _It’ll be fine._ ” Faith’s tone turned musical. “ _But for the sake of getting to know one another, what can you tell me?_ ”

“Only that you’re dealing with a vindictive, unsympathetic shrew, and not to get your hopes up.” John replied simply, holding up a pair of plain white underwear for inspection before tossing them aside. “I’d recommend locking it down if you manage to get your hands on her again.”

“ _John, you can be so jaded…_ ”

For just a moment, his patience snapped. “There’s no need to take unnecessary risks for the sake of impressing the Father. Do your job right or don’t do it at all.”

“ _Oh, you’d know, wouldn’t you?_ ”

Heat flooded John’s ears. Rage pitted in his core. The fucking nerve.

He steadied his tone, holding back a spark in volume. “I’m trying to give you advice.”

A sigh sounded on the other end of the line. “ _I appreciate it. Just let me try my way, okay? I like not being as heavy-handed as you and Jacob._ ”

There wasn’t going to be a victor. There was no way Faith would personally rough someone up. Her reputation counted on the gentle approach, and her pride, as well as the Father, encouraged it. John had to admit that a part of his frustration at his sister stemmed from worry. Joseph didn’t take failure well, and while John was usually able to worm his way out of punishment, Faith wasn’t as persuasive. She didn’t have a back-up for making risky decisions like this one.

“That’s why we love you.” He relented.

“ _Trust me, I know what I’m doing._ ”

“Have _**f** ** _a_ ith**_, right?”

A giggle. “ _Exactly. In the meantime, you have fun playing detective._ ”

A muffled rattle in the drawer while Faith spoke.

Bingo.

Digging through a pile of unmatched socks, John grinned at the two pill bottles that revealed themselves amongst the material. Picking one up, he rolled it in his palm, seeking a label. ‘ _ **DEXTROAMPHETAMINE SULFATE 10MG - TAKE ONE TABLET THREE TIMES A DAY’**_.

Just what he was looking for. 

“You bet.” John promised, dropping both bottles into his coat pocket.

Faith’s end cut out, leaving John to his almost-finished business. He’d snooped everywhere he could. Staying any longer might arouse suspicion. 

He scanned the room once more. There had to be _**something**_.

A flash of blue on the bed caught his eye. The corner of a book, peeking out from under the covers. Furrowing his brow, John leaned over the mattress and lifted the quilt.

Jesus fucking Christ.

 _ **‘INTRODUCTION TO PROPERTY LAW’**_.

That little snake. She’d genuinely had it out for him. She’d been going out of her way to drag him through the mud, all this time. Of all the petty, underhanded, overreaching methods a person could employ for winning a weekly argument, teaching oneself fucking property law had to be right up there. 

John stifled a laugh despite himself. It was almost flattering that Stammos had gone to such an extent to keep up with him. He’d previously thought her surprisingly knowledgeable. Apparently, she just didn’t like to lose. 

Turning back around, the man made for the door, however, he halted at the dresser once more. It was just as petty. Just as underhanded. An unknown victory.

_Fuck it._

He didn’t like to lose, either.

John snatched a pair of underwear from the drawer, stuffed them into his coat, and exited the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's a bad, fucked up person and we hate him. 
> 
> We do. We swear it. We love to see him vaguely hurt over his favourite book getting binned and jealous of his siblings being better enemies with his enemy than he is.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I tend to keep away from replying to comments on AO3 because gushing in a formal tone gives me stress hives, but please know that hearing feedback from you guys makes me type 10x faster due to the sheer excitement. 
> 
> Having said that, if you wanted to get in contact, chat about the fic/characters, or scream at me, my tumblr is baeogorath.tumblr.com


	6. Keep This Brief, Part II

Cora was in a foul mood when she came to. 

Her body tingled uncomfortably with residual Bliss leaving her system, gravel hard beneath her back and summer sun burning through the cracks in her eyes. A shrieking megaphone clawed at her ears from every direction.

No sense was spared, it seemed. Even Boomer’s kibble breath as he licked her face wasn’t enough to nullify the stink of vomit, gasoline, fire, and urine in the air. She could’ve sworn she tasted it in her throat. 

The silhouette of a white dress had etched itself into the backs of her eyelids, but her brain offered no other recollection of how she’d wound up on the ground like this. 

“Ho! She awakens!” A throaty voice sang through the speakers, grating enough to wake the woman out of her stupor. 

She sat up, groggy, still adjusting to the light through squinted eyes. Worn-out trailers. Old dirt. 

“Merle? Did you rearrange the park overnight?” Cora groaned, mustering the strength to wave Boomer away and wipe some of the dog’s saliva from her face. “Looks shit.”

“Hey, fuck you! Insulting a man’s castle. This happens to be the finest establishment in all the Henbane region. Ain’t even haunted or nothin’...far as I know.”

Okay, that wasn’t Merle. 

Cora scanned her surroundings until a sign came into view: “ _ **MOONFLOWER TRAILER PARK**_ ”. 

Already? She couldn’t even recall the trek up here.

Pushing herself to a stand, Cora eventually found the source of the voice. Sauntering along the boarded rooftops of trailers was a blonde man with a goatee and a headset perched over his baseball cap. He was sweaty and sunburned, but apparently in no hurry to remove his hoodie despite the heat.

While he dug through an icebox in his rooftop setup, Cora found herself a ladder and climbed up.

“Are you Mr. Boshaw?” She asked, tentatively examining the collection of weapons and engineering boards that hadn’t been visible from the ground. 

“That’d be my daddy.” He answered, not bothering to turn around to regard her. He uncapped a bottle and took a swig, clearing his throat at the burn. “Charlemagne Victor IV, but go ahead and call me- _ **Oh shit** **!**_ ”

The moment Boshaw had spared Cora a look, he recoiled. 

“Jesus Christ, you are _**short** **!**_ I thought you were just small ‘cuz you were layin’ way over there, but you’re not even bigger close up.”

Cora was not impressed, nor did she look it. Her brow furrowed so deep that it creased and her fingers curled tight into her palms. She made a point of ignoring his words. Standing across from the man, he had to be at least 6’2”. _That had to make anyone look small._

“Sir, a call was-”

“It’s Sharky.” He cut her off, shoving a hand toward her. She reluctantly shook it. Calloused. Clammy. Still wet from the icebox. Ugh.

“Ugh,” His words echoed her thoughts, “I’m sorry; it’s like shaking hands with a rat.”

_She wouldn’t lose her temper. She wouldn’t lose her temper._

“The County Jail received a call from you.” Cora said firmly, wiping her hand on her pant leg. “Came to check if everything was okay.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, everything’s fine now. Last wave got a little freaky, but me and my girlfriend survived. You’re lucky they seemed to think you were one of their own, dude. Gonna be honest, I thought you were too, ‘til you started throwin’ up everywhere. Must’ve been dosed pretty good.”

Cora’s frowned only deepened. At least that explained the taste, but the rest of the story made little sense.

“Come again?”

“Oh yeah, you wandered in here with the rest of them Angels a couple hours ago.” Sharky explained

“Angels.”

“Yeah, Angels! Like, uh…” He glanced around, peering over the edge of the trailer and exclaiming at a new discovery. Cora followed his gaze to a shaven corpse strewn across the grass. “That one right there.”

Without warning, a bang sounded from Sharky beside her, and a bullet sunk into the corpse’s head.

Cora whipped around, drawing her own gun, aiming it at the man.

“Gun down, hands on your fucking head!” She barked. 

Sharky dropped the handgun he’d procured, hands flying up, expression somewhere between shocked and indignant. “Woah, what?! What’d I do?!”

“You just desecrated a corpse!”

“No way, dude, it’s an Angel!”

Cora snarled, confusion only adding to her outrage. “Stop saying that!” She holstered her gun and made a lurch for Sharky. “You’re under arrest.”

He bounded away, avoiding her grasp. “Aw, come on! Weren’t you all kidnapped or something? You couldn’t tell me you were a cop _**before**_ I shot it?” He whined. “I thought we were havin’ fun.”

“You’re insane.” Cora grunted, making another grab for him. With a long arm, he simply held her at bay by pressing a palm to her forehead. She nearly shrieked. “Quit moving!”

Once Sharky had staggered far enough away, he made a break for his setup once more. He hunched, posture submissive, keeping his hands raised.

“Just let me show you, okay? They’re like, not even people.” With that, Sharky hit a pedal with his foot. The speakers once again screeched to life, and then, filling the park with an unmistakable intro riff… ** _Disco Inferno_**.

They exchanged a look; Cora, dumbfounded. Sharky, sheepish.

“You’re coming with me.”

She advanced on him again. 

“No, nonono Deputy, wait a sec!” Sharky cried, backing up, yanking himself away from her grappling hands. Disco blared as the little woman swept his leg out from beneath him and wrestled his squirming body to the ground, straddling his back and tugging a zip-tie from her pocket.

The man groaned loudly, rapping his forehead against the roof of the trailer while Cora struggled to keep his arms still. “Dude, I got bullied in elementary school. You’re making me relive some real heavy shit right now, bein’ child-sized and all.”

Something snapped. A roar erupted from Cora’s throat; her eyes blazing. “I’M NOT THAT SHOR-”

The burst of rage subsided just as quickly as it appeared, washed away with a startled look when her voice was drowned out by a broken, furious scream. Then another. And another. 

Half a dozen people spilled into the trailer park, feral, donning Eden’s Gate rags. Their heads shaven, like the feverish boy from the Jail. Some carried knives, shovels; others bare-handed. Some were clean; others saturated with blood. Every one of them looked out of their minds.

Cora suddenly felt very similar to how she’d felt fleeing with the Marshal weeks earlier. Only now, instead of a professional federal agent to guide her, she had a lunatic hillbilly and The Trammps.

Boomer took one look at the group and bolted, squeezing himself out of sight beneath a stripped car.

Sharky wriggled, pulling himself out from underneath the frozen woman. Pulling a trio of pressure tanks onto his shoulders, the man tugged at a hose that had been duct taped together, hands sliding up the tube until they reached a long, metal nozzle. 

“ _ **Those**_ are Angels.” He panted, shaking the nozzle in the direction of the incoming crowd. “And they love a good bassline.”

Cora just stared at him, astounded. “Is that a fucking flamethrower?” 

Sharky grinned, turning a valve on the makeshift weapon. “This is my girlfriend.”

The Angel at the head of the group sprinted head-on into the side of the trailer, splitting its forehead open on warped metal. No pain crossed its face. Just anger. It continued its assault, clawing with bare fingers, trying to scale the vehicle. 

Another crashed against the trailer, this one clever enough to take to the ladder.

“Hope County Sheriff’s Department…” Cora’s hand trained over her gun once again, backing up against Sharky once the Angel got to its feet. “Stand d-”

“Ain’t gonna listen, Deputy!”

Sharky slid around her, placing himself between the woman and their attacker. A jet of flame sprayed from the nozzle in his grasp, instantly wrapping around its target. The angel lit up, screeching, still stumbling toward the two until misplaced footing sent it tumbling over the edge of the trailer. The remaining Angels paid no mind, simply trampling the perishing creature.

Cora clapped a hand over her mouth, holding back a retch at the sight and smell. Sharky cast a look at her.

“Believe me now?”

“Yes, okay!” She gagged. “There’s something wrong with them. Make them stop!”

“Lucky for us, they’re mostly just attracted to noise - so when I get tired of lighting ‘em up, all I gotta do is flip this here switch and they stop coming.”

Sharky tapped a pedal with his foot. No change. He tried a second time. Nothing.

“Uh. Well, fuck.”

There was murder in the Deputy’s eyes when she looked at him. “Boshaw, I swear to god-”

“It’s fine!” He squeaked, “We can just unplug the generator.”

“Which is?”

“Just...over yonder.” Sharky pointed across the park at a puttering little battery pack atop another trailer. Unfortunately, there were no boards connecting it to the others, warranting a climb down to the common area currently occupied by a screaming mob. 

The two exchanged another look, neither wanting to volunteer. Sharky was the lucky first to think of an excuse.

“I’ll keep ‘em distracted over here. You can sneak past while I finish off the rest, okay? Just like, do it fast or they’ll multiply and we’ll die.”

Cora grunted, giving in and looking around for a spot to jump down that wasn’t either swarming with Angels or caught on fire. A patch of bare grass behind the park seemed safe and quiet enough. She’d been about to slip down when Sharky waved a hand at the arsenal in his setup. 

“Might wanna take a better gun than that shitty little piggy pistol you got goin’, though...just in case.” He muttered, earning himself one final scowl from the woman as she stomped past and tugged a shotgun from the pile. 

With that, she jumped from the roof and hit the grass below.

Even with a wall separating Cora from the chaos, it did little to dampen the noise ringing in her ears. From the music still blasting from every angle, to the feral screaming and the roaring flamethrower overhead, there was no escaping the anxiety it wrought. There was too much going on, and no way to dampen the assault on her senses. Peeking out from around the corner of the trailer, Cora struggled to fix her focus on the generator on the other side of the park.

Ignore the noise. Ignore the prickling in her skin and the grinding in her jaw. Offset that anxious energy into just getting to the other side of the park, alive. Focus on a single objective: Get to the device. Switch it off.

Clear and simple. 

Fingers tightening around the grip of the shotgun, Cora waited for another blast of flame to spill from Sharky’s flamethrower before rushing out from behind her cover. Despite the shaken balance that came with overstimulation, she was darting across the property in an instant. It wasn’t as if there was anything to duck and hide behind on the way there - either she got to the trailer on first attempt, undetected, or she didn’t, and she’d get her head caved in by a shovel. 

“Big red switch, right on the top!” Sharky hollered, somewhere behind her. “Can’t miss it!”

The Deputy reached the trailer, skidding to a halt in the gravel and rounding behind the vehicle in search of a ladder. The one mounted to the outer wall was rusted and wobbly, but it did the trick, only giving the smallest squeak when she pulled herself up one-handed. 

Just as Sharky had promised, the switch atop the chugging generator was clear to see. Cora stamped the button off with the toe of her boot, and just like that, it was done. The generator whirred to a stop, and the blaring music cut out, leaving the woman with only the buzzing in her ears and the growl of leftover Angels on Sharky’s end of the park. 

She cast a look toward the man, finding him dousing four twitching bodies in flames. Four. Plus the one he’d already taken care of before she’d made a break from the generator. That left -

Sharky’s gaze met Cora’s, and his face fell.

The snarl beside her ear came as muted as it did pounding, and an arm slipped over her shoulder. Around her neck. Yanking back. Constricting.

“ _ **DEP!**_ ”

Self defence courses, both on college campus and in the police academy, had geared her for situations like this. Practice, over and over, had turned her response into instinct. _Dip down. Don’t let them tighten their hold._

It was just unfortunate, Cora would later think, that those classes had never been practiced off the side of a building. 

When she ducked down, grasping the arm of the Angel behind her, the Deputy slipped off of the side of the trailer, sending the both of them hurtling to the earth below in a heavy slam. The force was enough to wind the two, momentarily detaching the Angel from Cora’s throat, but her attacker recovered almost immediately. 

The Angel scrambled over Cora, rabid, punching and clawing indiscriminately with bruised knuckles and overgrown nails while the Deputy attempted to shield herself with her forearms and the shotgun in her grasp.

“Hold on, I’m comin’!”

Cora barely registered Sharky’s voice. The music had stopped, but it had only been replaced by the static and the flowing blood in between her ears. Her own scratching through the dirt, trying to get away from the Angel like sandpaper. It was all too much going on at once. Her brain couldn’t keep up. 

The Angel’s fingers dug into the gravel beside Cora’s head, and this time, the blow that struck her drew blood, splitting her cheek. A rock. Over and over; pain - the Angel wouldn’t let up, bashing at her skull while she feebly tried to defend. Any next blow could hit the right spot. 

She couldn’t hear Sharky anymore. He wasn’t coming to save her. 

Everything melded into white noise, then. The stress response spilled through Cora’s body, rising through her throat in a furious scream. The shotgun angled, finding the soft flesh of a chest. Her eyes scrunched shut. She pulled the trigger.

Maybe the blast of the shotgun had deafened her, but Cora could’ve sworn she never heard it go off. Everything went deathly silent the moment she’d shot the weapon. Still. Dark. Warmth travelled down her hands, her wrists. Over her stomach and chest.

Cora’s eyes opened. The Angel hovered over her, stilled. The muzzle of her shotgun remained buried in the creature, but what had once been a dirtied shirt was now a mess of torn flesh, exposed organs, and bone. Blood poured from the site, straight down over Cora, drenching her torso. 

A wheeze from above cut through the silence, drawing Cora’s focus up to the Angel’s face. A female. Eyes watering. Growing dull. 

Then, a retch.

Cora barely had time to close her eyes again when a spurt of blood spilled from the Angel’s mouth, directly over her face and neck. She twisted to the side to escape the sensation, and the Angel slid with her, slumping to the ground in a lifeless heap. 

Sound came rushing back to a comfortable level. Her heart beat steadied and the tingling in her skin retreated. 

Sharky’s footsteps approached while the Deputy sat up, regaining her composure.

“Shit, dude. You good?” He paused, pursing his lips when his question went without reply. “Almost fuckin’ bought it.”

Cora blinked at him, red dripping from her eyelashes. “Yeah.”

She felt...fine.

Better than fine. No longer overstimulated. Clarified, even. 

She’d killed a person. She’d taken a life. Ended it without consent. This was what she’d feared giving into since this whole disaster of a situation began. She’d been so scared to take the shot, all this time, and her inability to do so had led to Burke’s capture. To Merle’s. To her own.

It was a life-altering, reality-warping event to cross. 

So why did she feel next to nothing? Why did opening up another person in the heat of the moment feel on-par with a morning coffee run to the Spread Eagle? Where were her shaking hands? Her cottonmouth? Where were the sobs wracking her body? The shell-shock?

Cora pushed herself to a stand, waving away Sharky’s offer to pull her up. Her legs didn’t give way; sure-footed as ever. 

All she felt was impatience at the sheer fact she couldn’t manually muster the feeling of trauma. It was embarrassing; like being caught underacting on-stage. The poison in her expression mustn’t have gone unnoticed by the arsonist. Even _**he**_ backed away from her.

“What’s the matter with me?” Cora bit, eyes darting to Sharky, who spared her a cautious glance. “Boshaw, why aren’t I a mess right now?”

More anger. She stomped toward the man, shotgun swinging in her grasp. 

“Where the fuck is my PTSD?!”

“What makes you think I took it?!” Sharky barked back, holding his flamethrower to his chest as if she were about to take it from him.

Cora stopped a foot short of the man, pausing there, hostility receding. She scowled at the lettering on his hoodie: ‘ _ **WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT?**_ ”

Sharky tugged something out of his rear pocket and handed it to her. A cloth. She grumbled her thanks and mopped at the blood on her face and hands. Only upon returning it to him did she realise that she’d cleaned herself off with a pair of men’s underwear. Honestly, though, she’d suffered through enough bodily fluids today that she passed them back without complaint. 

A moment of silence passed between them, neither knowing quite what to say after their shared experience. Boomer had climbed out of his hiding place and re-joined the two at some point during that stretch, enjoying a scratch from Sharky while the Deputy continued to sift through her emptied mind. 

When she finally accepted that no amount of searching would help her find the reaction she wanted, Cora exhaled through her nose, and turned to the first priority that arose.

“How’s my hair?” She asked.

A lopsided smile tugged at Sharky’s face, deepening laugh lines and crows feet. “Salon standard. Gimme a sec.”

Sharky excused himself to a trailer, leaving Cora to make her way back to the boardwalk. The adrenaline was leaving her system. Her arms felt sore from the recoil of the shotgun now. The scrapes on her face from the Angel’s rock were starting to burn a little, but that was about the extent of the damage. When Sharky returned, she’d sat herself down, legs dangling over the edge of the trailer, looking over the hillside. 

One could see a long stretch of Holland Valley from up here. From a distance, it looked just as peaceful as ever. Almost the same view as the drive in from Missoula. 

Another ball of material shoved in front of her brought the Deputy back to present. When she didn’t immediately take the item, he simply dropped it into her lap.

“I’m gonna want that back, thank you very much.” He grumbled.

Cora shot him a questioning look before unfolding the material. It was a large brown t-shirt, covered in holes and stains. On the chest sat a cartoon hotdog with a smaller cartoon hotdog for a penis. Both of them were smoking joints. Cora's expression soured. 

“One of my favourites. Cousin brought it back from vacation with him a couple of years back.” Sharky answered for her, awkwardly tucking his hands into his pockets. “Go on, I won’t look. I’m a gentleman and all that.”

Tasteless as the shirt was, Cora wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to change into clothes that weren’t soaked with blood. When Sharky turned his head, she pulled the shirt Dutch had given her over her head and replaced it with the gifted one. Without tucking it into her pants, it would have reached her knees. 

“Known each other for 20 minutes and you’ve given me half a wardrobe, Boshaw.” She commented.

A snort sounded from the man. “Known each other for 20 minutes and you’ve blown someone’s chest cavity out in front of me.”

Cora went quiet again at that. Sharky seemed to notice.

“First time, huh.” He muttered. 

The Deputy gave a curt nod. “Yeah, it was. Expected a little more drama, to be honest.”

“Aw shit; maybe you just discovered a hidden talent or somethin’.” He suggested with a shrug, heading back to rifle through his cooler once more. Cora welcomed the beer he offered. “Like, so you might be kind of a psychopath and killing doesn’t bother you or whatever. So what? Doesn’t bother me, either.”

Cora rolled her eyes at that comparison, and the toothy grin he sent back stirred something in her gut. A dry chuckle, trying to force its way out. 

“Besides, while all this cult shit is still floating around, it’s not the worst thing you could discover about yourself.”

He wasn’t wrong. Maybe the local loon wasn’t such bad company despite old impressions. Not that she was in any hurry to tell him that. 

“Yeah, well. Thanks. For the shirt.” Was all she could muster.

Sharky hummed. “Don’t arrest me and I’ll let you keep it.”

The two of them sat quietly for a while, just drinking and watching the end of day colours roll across the valley below. Boomer huffed and puffed from his resting place at ground-level, making his dissatisfaction known.

“So that’s Angels.” Cora breathed, finally.

“Faith’s pets. Folks who put up too much of a fuss and get pumped full of Bliss to become ‘enlightened’ or some shit.”

“What _**is**_ Bliss?”

“No clue. They extract it from this flower they’ve been growin’ everywhere in the hills. Makes you dizzy just driving past.”

Cora squinted. “A flower. What’s it look like?”

“Uhhh, white? Kinda bell shaped?”

Datura, Borrachero; there were multiple plants that fit the description, however all shared a common element. Scopolamine. It made enough sense - why she couldn’t remember being dosed by both John and Faith. Why the Angels responded to nothing beyond attacking sound sources. The Sheriff hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d described the place as a Bliss factory, then.

Anger stirred in her again. She wasn’t a fan of being taken control of like that. To lose her autonomy without even realising it, and the gall for Faith to send her up here anyway felt like a mockery; like she was confident she had the Deputy under her thumb. Worse still, she was cultivating that means of power, right here in the Henbane? Nightshades grew up in the hills, but they were a controlled breed, toxic to animals.

“She’s got it on plots, though, right?”

Sharky snorted. “Fuck no, dude. They’re all over the place, all hidden behind the trees and shit. The babies all come out of the old Jessop place, and when it’s time to strain, they go back again.”

Right. That did it. 

Cora rolled her shoulders back, straightening out. A new priority formed in her brain, surfacing easily among the relative quiet.

“Boshaw.” She began, earning a glance.

“Sharky to you. We’re pals, now.”

She found herself without the urge to argue that. “I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Mighty kind of you.” He replied, drily. 

“But I do have a favour to ask.”

“After all that fun we just had? I’d be happy to do just about anything. One condition, though.”

“Shoot.”

That lopsided grin crept back onto the man’s face. 

“I get to call you Shorty.”

…

Mother fucker.

* * *

“Deputy Hudson!”

John grinned from ear to ear, shoes tapping against concrete flooring as he strode into his interrogation room, finding the woman in question bound and aglow under the red light of heat lamps. Her head dipped in exhaustion, uniform grimy with old sweat. She hadn’t been returned to her bed in over two days, and boy, was it showing.

She hardly responded to his presence; at least not until he kicked the door shut behind him, warranting a startled jolt. 

“That’s more like it. Good evening!”

He’d initially intended on heading straight back to the ranch after paying that exhausting visit to Missoula, but after how smoothly the day had gone, the Baptist had found himself invigorated. What good would bed rest do if he was simply too excited to settle? There was work to be done, and he was in the perfect mood for it. No one was to question the man for simply wanting to get back to his duties, and it set a good example to the flock. Those who wanted their own days off simply needed to look to their Herald. How hard he was working. Surely they could strive to be like John.

His tools had already been laid out for him on the workbench, cleaned and straightened in order of favoured selection like fine dining cutlery. Pliers, scalers, clamps, scalpels and forceps were delicately arranged on a platter for his more careful work, while some of the more intimidating instruments hung from hooks and mounted sockets for electrical equipment, namely tattoo guns. They got rare use unless it was for body disposal, but the odd saw **_did_** come into play on occasion, and with Hudson’s month-long silence so far, John was thankful to see one mounted to the wall of the bench this time around. 

Crossing the room, John stopped just short of Hudson’s knees and bent at the hips to pull the worn duct tape from her mouth. Bless her, she made an effort to hold her breath in silence, but he was close enough to hear the swell of a sob in her chest. It was satisfying enough that he drew away with a smile and went searching for a stool.

“I was thinking you might want to head back to your room soon enough. Get some rest.” He mentioned while he looked, finding the object he sought in the corner of the room, “It can be easy to lose your sense of time in here, right? How long do you think it’s been since you last moved your legs?”

“Fuck you.” Hudson’s voice was low, scratchy from dehydration. Much weaker than she had been a few weeks prior. Her only words to him thus far had consisted of either ‘fuck you’ or ‘stop it’, or, depending on how much pain she was in, a mashup of the two phrases. The growing resignation in her tone stirred no sympathy in him; it only bore a glimpse of the finish line that was extracting her confession. Made him all the more excited to keep going. Keep pushing. 

John returned to the woman, dropping the wooden stool in front of her and taking a seat. His eyes searched her face, utilising the silence to make her feel all the more scrutinised. She turned her gaze as far away as she could, looking over her shoulder, not even allowing him to exist in her periphery. 

Hudson was strong. He’d give her that. She cried just as much as anyone when he pinched and pulled and twisted at her. Her bandaged left hand, emptied of fingernails, was a living trophy of their most recent interaction, but whereas some sinners could take mere minutes to confess their sins to him, it had taken the woman weeks to utter anything beyond those two stubborn phrases.

He was almost certain he’d be etching ‘ _ **PRIDE**_ ’ into her skin eventually, but it wasn’t his place to make that decision for her. She needed to be brought to that point herself, and he had all the patience in the world to watch her get there. 

“Let’s try another session. Then we’ll send you off to bed.” John announced, pushing himself back up again and heading back to the workbench. His hand drifted over the tools, unsure of his selection. “Do you remember if we got around to power tools last time?”

Her shiver at that could be heard from across the room. 

He cast a look back at her. Fresh tears, already, glinting under the heat lamp. John offered a gentle look. Sympathetic. “You know, we don’t even have to start if you'd just say it.”

John would never get her answer. A knock rapped at the door, drawing both their attention, Hudson hopeful; John suddenly maddened.

“ _ **What?**_ ” He spat.

The door opened, revealing a very concerned Nancy. Everyone knew better than to interrupt John’s work, and even if she’d been given clearance to cut across the chain of command, even she looked hesitant to speak. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you, John. Faith’s been looking for you.”

Again? 

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. More bragging, probably. 

“She can wait.” He said. “We spoke earlier today.”

Nancy didn’t move. She didn’t bow her head in acknowledgment of his words. When he shot her a firm look, she returned his ferocity with panic. 

“She was very insistent. Channel 2, if you change your mind.”

With that, Nancy ejected herself from the room, yanking the door closed behind her and disappearing from the window. 

John, meanwhile, glanced at Hudson, who’d now turned her attention to him, expectant. He didn’t want to answer. He knew how this might be registered from an outsider. He didn’t want to have to bend to his sister’s demands while in the middle of his own job like some sort of underling, but if something important had happened…

He mustered a sweet smile, unclipping the little UHF radio from his belt and turning the volume down so as to conceal whatever Faith needed to say. “Excuse me a moment.”

He pressed the talk button.

“Faith? You called?”

Not one second passed before his sister’s voice spilled through the speaker. Gagged, choking sobs, loud enough to make the sound clip. There was no keeping that from Hudson, nor was there any keeping the alarm in his expression from her. He turned away, moving himself across the room.

“Faith. Talk to me.”

“ _John - I’m - so - I’m sorry -_ ” Faith gasped, well into a stage of hyperventilation, “ _\- Don’t tell Joseph - **Please** don’t tell Joseph -_”

“Calm down. I’m here. I’m not gonna tell.”

“ _I don’t know what to do!_ ” Another wave of sobs. “ _ **There’s nothing left!**_ ”

“Nothing left? Faith, I can’t help until you tell me what’s happened.” It was a struggle to keep the urgency from growing in his voice. The only other time he’d heard her in such a state was when she’d gone cold turkey. Whatever it was, it was bad.

“ _The Conservatory - it’s burning! Everything’s gone! Feeney’s gone! Oh **God** , John, please help me -_ “

Oh fuck. Bad. Very bad. Very, very bad.

John was already stepping backward, headed for the door. His hand felt for the handle and tugged. This was embarrassing to say the least, but the dread he felt on Faith’s behalf dwarfed the squint that Hudson was sending his way. 

“Family matter.” He chimed at his captive before departing, darting through the corridor and passing Nancy on the way. “Get her back into her room.”

He returned to the radio, then. As heavily as ‘ _I told you so_ ’ sat on his tongue, he knew the consequences of this. It was a fucking disaster. He had to get over there before Joseph caught the news. 

“Faith, I’m on my way, okay? Don’t move. We’re going to figure this out.” 

No more words came through the speaker. Just more crying.

John broke into a sprint, cursing under his breath all the way back to the surface.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's a bad man, but he's a family man.   
> See here https://imgur.com/a/TMx7FY9 for John's precise expression and pose when Faith answers on the radio. (Roz can go ahead and be Nancy. We stan a traitorous mom)
> 
> Meanwhile, Stammos kills someone! How about that?
> 
> As usual, thanks for your support <3 Love hearing from y'all and hope you're enjoying this fic!
> 
> Find me at baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	7. He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother!

In the month following the Jessop Conservatory's destruction, it had been all systems go for the Project, and despite doing his best to stay the hell out of his siblings’ business, their little wild goose chase was finally beginning to sand at Jacob’s patience. 

It’d started out reasonable enough; a stagger in Bliss exports to the Whitetails thanks to the one-off hit that production had taken. He’d been okay with that. Hiccups occurred, and Faith was usually punctual with her deliveries. But all it ended up taking was one attack. One little hit and run mission on the Conservatory, and the locals were already rising up. An onslaught of assaults against Eden’s Gate property followed that night, serving as a firm reminder to the other Heralds that any act of resistance, no matter how unorganised, had the potential to spark a fire among the masses. 

As the days passed, more bad news came rolling in. More apologies. More delays. As the days turned to weeks, the Henbane was thrown into a state of chaos. The fire that had sparked became literal. As the Cougars grew in numbers and the Project struggled to hold their ground, Bliss fields were targeted; burned to ashes in controlled purges until they had a stranglehold on the product. Jacob had been less impressed by that, but even so, he still had plenty of his own stockpile and other means to rely on. 

When the hit and runs subsided, the Heralds had expected the collective temper tantrum to end. Faith and Joseph succeeded in intercepting the Deputy on their own, and after a ‘talking to’ that both claimed went quite well, all things considered, the region turned quiet for a few days. 

And _**then**_ the shit hit the fan. 

The Cougars, presumably directed by the powers that be, holed up in their little Jail, started going after outposts and encampments. They were stealing weapons. Destroying memorabilia. It was a complete hostile take-over, and sighted at every attack, spearheading the crowd? The same Deputy that had allegedly been brought under control. The one tiny, once-laughable little thorn in their side that had done nothing but grow over the past few years.

It was a huge embarrassment, and one that warranted a communication shut-down at Joseph’s order to keep word from spilling into the Whitetails and the Valley. Borders were seized and the radio towers closest to them scrambled. 

Jacob hadn’t been surprised, hearing it all unfold. Faith was a little girl who grew flowers, and she’d been tasked with smoking out terrorists. Joseph shouldn’t have put her up to it in the first place, but he’d been both so intent on teaching John a lesson in arrogance and so convinced that his Siren would somehow pull years of tactical know-how out of her ass just because God willed it, that he supported her motion to refuse any assistance.

Even _**that**_ came crashing down as the weeks passed. Soon enough, John’s chosen were being sent across the river. If Faith had requested the help, Jacob didn’t hear anything about it, but even if she had, he’d have left her hanging. 

His orders had been to stick to his own mission, and that’s what he planned on doing. It didn’t concern him that the little girl his younger brothers had adopted had fucked up somehow, nor did it concern him to lend a hand. He had soldiers to train, and a militia to hunt. They all had their jobs to do, and they didn’t have time to pick up each other’s slack. 

If only John felt the same way. He’d been throwing his support to the Henbane before Joseph had even authorised it.

Jacob’s shoulders tightened, and he pressed back into his seat, flexing his splayed fingers over the steering wheel. He stared ahead at the road, gaze catching on a decades-old property sign along a passing driveway: _**‘RYE AND SONS AVIATION.'**_

Beneath it, scribbled in white paint: _**‘ AND FLIGHT SCHOOL.’**_

How many years had it been since he’d been down at the Rye place? Felt like they were there almost every weekend, once upon a time. 

Back when they’d been newcomers to the county, the guy that ran the airport had offered to take them up. Joseph wasn’t about it. Jacob tried - the flying, he enjoyed, but Nick was a half-wit and he couldn’t stand to be around the guy for more than ten minutes. 

John, on the other hand…

Their baby brother had few tells. Granted, they’d only been back in touch for a year or so before taking their road trip to Montana, but Jacob liked to think old habits die hard. John’s ability to be a social chameleon could be unconvincing if you were close enough to him as Jacob and Joseph were. His warmth was different.The way he socialised with the locals was entirely superficial, but only the three brothers knew that.

Nick had been some odd exception to that superficiality. A high school drop-out and gear-head whose claims to fame were the airport he’d inherited, a military lineage, and a pretty girlfriend. He had nothing in common with John, whose identifiers typically danced around ‘rich’ and ‘educated’, but after showing the guy how to fly, John had more in common with Nick than he did anyone outside the family: a shared passion. Soon enough, the Seeds were always welcome at that airport, and Nick and John weren’t often seen far from each other. Jacob watched his manicured brother, who wouldn’t _**dare**_ check under the hood of a car, come around to the idea of using his hands for something that wasn’t cleaning or preening. 

Nowadays, he could disassemble and reassemble cars, planes, boats - you name it. Nick taught John how to be self-sufficient, and in return, John helped Nick keep his business afloat. 

Priorities changed as the years passed, however. Eden’s Gate was growing, and John’s role with it.

He retained the skill, but not the friend.

Jacob had settled into hanging around Eli by then, so he’d never been sure of how things had ended between John and Nick. One day, his little brother simply started to talk about the pilot with the same malice he regarded the other locals with. One day, his nose looked just a little bit more crooked than it had previously. A man of few tells, indeed, but Jacob was familiar with that look in his eye. He was hurt.

Nick and Jacob interacted only once after that. Nick wanted nothing to do with him.

Maybe one day, after the Collapse, Jacob would ask how it all unfolded.

Right now, there were bigger things at hand, and as antsy as leaving the Whitetails tended to make Jacob these days, he needed to air some things out with his little brother.

After Joseph had ordered the communication shut-down, it had put a strain on more than just resistance gossip. The Seeds themselves had to be careful now about who heard what from their mouths. Project chatter from the flock was all well and good, but conversations among the siblings needed to be kept more secret than ever, and that warranted more face-to-face communication behind closed doors.

Jacob didn’t like leaving the Whitetails, but it was a necessary absence. He’d gone to such an effort initially, to keep his nose out of Faith’s business and stick to his own mission. His borders were patrolled, heavily. Surveillance was tight. Nothing entered or left the region without him knowing about it.

To him, it had all just been business as usual. 

At least until the Cook showed up with his head missing a couple of days back.

After all the work he’d put in to ensure trouble didn’t come knocking, it slipped in from the East, right under his nose, and disappeared back over the Henbane border with the Boshaw-Drubman mob. He hadn’t believed it at first; it had to have been orchestrated by someone _**other**_. Someone stronger. Smarter. That little ranger simply wasn’t equipped for the task, especially not with that hick family involved. 

Of course Jacob was angry about it. He wasn’t a fan of being made a fool of, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistakes as Faith and John by harbouring a grudge against the woman. Instead of just bottling his grievances and letting them eat away at him the way his younger siblings did, he was content to just chew John’s ear off for an hour and be done with it. The Cook had been valuable, sure. But everyone was disposable. Another Chosen would take his place in due time.

In the meantime, Jacob himself had improvements to strive for. He’d reconfigure border patrols. Tighten security. He’d simply note to stamp out the smallest acts of resistance and use the mistakes of others as an example. After all, he’d only been directly affected by this all thanks to Faith. 

Pulling left into the Seed Ranch driveway, Jacob cruised onto the property. It was late enough that he’d have expected John to already be comfortably at home, but as he entered the parking area, he found his little brother illuminated in his headlights, only just shutting the door of his own car. 

John held up an arm, squinting against the LEDs, and upon registering his visitor’s identity, opened his hand in a tiny wave. He waited for Jacob to park before approaching, pinching the inner corners of his eyes.

“Trying to burn someone’s eyes out?” He grimaced.

“Wouldn’t be whining so much if you had moose on your roads. What’s the worst you get down here? Angry turkeys?” Jacob grunted back, swinging the door open and pushing himself out of the vehicle. As good as felt, seeing John, the Soldier had never really been confident about expressing love for the guy. Decades back, he’d rocked the Baptist to sleep as a toddler; held him with Joseph on winter nights to keep him warm. He’d changed more diapers than his parents combined. The Marines weren’t so intimate. Displays of affection were against regulation. Between treating the now-grown man like an infant or offering a salute, Jacob just...wasn’t sure which got the point across better.

As usual, he opted for an attempt at a hug, draping an arm around John’s smaller frame and momentarily resting his chin atop the man’s head. John returned the gesture just as awkwardly, simply keeping his hands on Jacob’s arms and giving a tap to signal when it was appropriate to back away. 

The love was always there; they just didn’t speak the same language. 

“What’re you doin’ out so late, Johnny? Faith got you running errands again?” Jacob asked, keeping stride when John spun around to head up to the residence.

“As a matter of fact, we took Fall’s End today.” John replied firmly. “200 people from the town centre needed processing in the bunker. A lot of tedium.”

Jacob’s exasperation with that response couldn’t be contained. His expression immediately soured, shooting John the dead eye as they entered the building. When it came to Collapse preparation, he’d never been able to wrap his head around around the other man’s approach. He took in the weak without a second thought. Added unnecessary labour to his stack. Gave away resources to the undeserving. The Soldier kept on while the Baptist stopped to kick off his shoes at the door, heading straight for the kitchen without waiting. John may have inherited the ranch after everyone else moved elsewhere, but didn’t make it any less ‘theirs’. 

Besides - John kept craft beer and had the audacity not to drink it. Even if there _**had**_ been a social boundary in the way, no obstacle was keeping Jacob from that. Sure, it wasn’t strictly speaking allowed in the Project, but the brothers had their exemptions; Jacob was still allowed tobacco and alcohol (non-spirits, specifically), and John was authorised to smoke a little pot every once in a while to cool his temper. Jacob couldn’t stand to see him smoking the shit, and he’d been damn vocal about it initially. Eventually bearing witness to the carnage that was John’s tantrums, however, shut him up right quick. 

John disappeared off somewhere while Jacob rummaged through the refrigerator. Chock full of local produce, but most of it bordered on spoiled and wilted. If the Baptist had been eating, he hadn’t been doing so at home. 

“You’re wasting your time.” Jacob called idly, tugging a beer out and untwisting the cap. When he shut the door, John entered the kitchen, still pulling a t-shirt over his head. His eyes looked just as strained indoors as they had with floodlights pointed at them.

John went about preparing himself a cup of tea, filling the kettle with water and shooting Jacob a withering look when he tossed his bottle cap at the counter. “It’s a little tasteless to simultaneously lecture someone and make a mess in their home. Don’t be greedy. Pick one.”

Always so neurotic. 

Jacob made a show of plucking the cap back up and dropping it in the trash, making his choice known. He opened his mouth to reply, but John beat him to it with an exasperated groan.

“I’d very much prefer you pick the other one.” 

“When’s it gonna get through your head?” Jacob asked, “You’re being too cosmopolitan. 200 people? How many of them are dead weight eating our food, and how many are _**actually**_ going to join the Project?”

“Everyone has the potential to be worthy of atonement.”

“They’re better off as target practice for the ones who’ve already proven themselves.”

John rolled his jaw. “It’s calling saving people. I’d rather value human life.”

Bullshit, Jacob thought. John’s turnover was just as high as his and Faith’s. John just gave his captives valuable free water, food, and accommodation until he decided to kill them. His brother just thought too highly of himself to accept it.

“So until they’re worthy, you’re housing a couple hundred angry prisoners, grouped together in comfy lodging where they can plan escapes all day. It’s stupid.” Jacob paused, taking a swig and sighing. “You’re gonna wind up with a bullet in your brain.”

“I’ll put it there myself if you don’t get off my back about my bunker.” John bit, tone sharp. A warning. 

Jacob acquiesced, shrugging off his brother’s attitude. He set his beer down and hoisted himself up to sit on the counter-top while John went about preparing his tea. His expression never shifted out of neutrality, but there was a stiff sort of jerkiness to his movements when he was irritated. The way his fingers drummed along the handle of the kettle while he poured, taming restless muscles. God, he was about to blow. 

It hadn’t been Jacob’s intention to annoy him. It had been his intention to grab a beer, chew his brother’s ear off about the Cook, and go home. Seeing John this tired, though, it unnerved him. He was his baby brother. It didn’t matter whether or not he got prickly about being lectured. 

Whether he liked it or not, Jacob would always look out for him, and sometimes (a lot of the time) that meant force feeding him information he didn’t wanna digest.

Being the eldest was a double-edged sword most of the time. You were the parent by proxy and the others resented you for it as much as they needed you to be there. 

“How’s Faith doin’?” Jacob asked, watching John’s chest puff up at the mention of the woman.

“Haven’t heard from her. Last we spoke, she said she was going after the Deputy herself. That was about a week ago. Never thought I’d see Faith at a loss for patience.” He mused. “Hell hath no fury.”

Jacob’s thoughts flickered to the emptied shoulders of his Chosen, hacked flesh and head missing. Hell hath no fury, indeed. 

He couldn’t help the next question that came to mind.

“So Joseph’s taking care of the Henbane region while she’s out of office?”

John didn’t speak for a moment; the loud clinking of metal against ceramic as he stirred through steaming water filling the silence for him. 

They both knew the answer. There was no avoiding the trajectory of the conversation. Jacob’s head was already shaking before John even opened his mouth.

“You’re shitting me.” The Solder grated. “John, you have your own region to take care of. The Reaping-”

“The Reaping won’t be complete in time with our organisation cut by a third. Besides, Faith needs the help-”

“And in the meantime, you look impoverished. You know she’d throw you under the bus if the tables were turned. Regardless of you picking up her slack, it’s still Faith’s territory. You’re not gonna get a pat on the back because-...shit, does Joseph even know about this?”

John glared straight ahead, shoulders hunched. “God will recognise my accomplishments.”

“Not if they run you into the ground.” Jacob pushed off of the counter, approaching the man, using their height difference to impose his statement. He hovered over his shoulder, yet John still refused to acknowledge him. “Focus on your own region. Joseph isn’t going to appreciate careless mistakes on your end just because Faith needed to have her hide saved. This is her mistake to fix, not yours, and if she can’t fix it, then that’s Joseph’s responsibility.”

That did it. John rounded on Jacob, standing his ground, brow furrowed. 

“And the Father is our responsibility.” He snapped. “He’s the one who can’t tire. Everything has to run smoothly, and we need to ensure that for him. So, yes. I _**will**_ pick up Faith’s slack, and I **_won’t_** make mistakes. It doesn’t matter how tired I get, or if she’d rather throw me under the bus. I’m doing this for all of us, and for Joseph.”

A second passed. Something flashed over his little brother’s eyes, cutting through the brewing fury. 

“What would Joseph think of me if I didn’t?"

His voice was quiet. Suddenly, he seemed smaller. 

"He hasn't spoken to me in weeks, Jake."

Jacob softened. Jesus. That old chestnut. 

He relented with a roll of his eyes, snatching his beer from the counter and passing John on his way out of the kitchen. “Ah, come on, teacher’s pet. We’ve been over this. No news is good news.” 

“Easy for you to say.” John grumbled over his shoulder, following along. “It’s like you can do no wrong.”

“No, I’m just happy to keep my head down and do what I need to. I don’t need someone else to tell me I’m doing the right thing. Silence doesn’t mean you’re in trouble. Learn to find peace in that.”

* * *

  
  


John stared at the back of his brothers head while they walked, bound for the living room. Jacob was always so hasty to offload wisdom with limited information. The ham-fisted surrogate father act was almost as annoying as the lectures, and as much as John appreciated his efforts, Jacob’s clumsy words simply fell on deaf ears. If he’d genuinely known what had been going on, his advice would’ve been wildly different. He didn’t about that night of the Cleansing. He wasn’t there to see the look on Joseph’s face - the disappointment. 

He didn’t know that John was correcting his own mistakes as much as he was correcting Faith’s by taking care of the Henbane. 

“So amongst your ‘silence’, what’s new with you?” John asked, keen to disperse the coiling irritation in his gut. 

“That -” Jacob’s voice took on a different tone. Matter-of-fact. Downplaying feeling. “- Is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go on.”

“The Cook’s dead.”

Not at all what he was expecting to hear. Despite the bad news, however, John found himself a little boosted by it. Superior. Here he was, managing two regions perfectly well while his brother had lost one of his best amidst half that workload.

It was all too tempting not to twist the blade a little. 

“Hope County’s best babysitter?” Rolled over his tongue, lips pulling into a grin. “What ever will you do?”

Jacob spun around, jabbing his index finger at John and stopping him in his tracks. Such a short fuse for a man so willing to sink his claws into others. 

“He was corrected for that.” Jacob growled, low and dangerous. “You know very well I’d never endorse involving kids in my recruitment. Once he was reconditioned, there was nothing left of the old Cook.”

John simply threw up a hand in mock defence; the other clutching his mug. “I mean it! Such a shame. Honestly.”

The Solder grunted, taking another swig, conceding defeat rather than invite more mockery. 

“Was it the Militia, again?” John pressed, this time more sincere.

Jacob didn’t answer. He simply returned his gaze to John, expression knowing. Perturbed. John’s victory waned instantly. The glee that’d been eclipsing his anger washed away entirely, evaporating into dread. His core seized in an uncomfortable knot. 

_**That fucking Deputy.** _

“John, it’s not your-”

“Don’t tell me you let her get away, too. Tell me you caught her.” John nearly pleaded. “That she’s either locked up in a cage somewhere, or dead, or both.” 

“He was already days dead when we found him.”

The Baptist had to bite his lip to hold in a growl at that. His grip tightened on the mug, trembling until hot tea soaked the pads of his fingers. “For God’s sake, how fucking hard is it to keep track of one person? All this “let her find her way” business isn’t working. It’s getting worse. Where’s the consequence? Where’s the punishment?”

A frown crept onto Jacob’s face, then. “It’s really not all that bad. Sure, I’m pissed that I lost one of my Chosen - sure, I’d love to see the culprit dead, but she hasn’t set foot back in Holland Valley-”

“And what if she does? What if the entire Eastern region goes up in flames?” John spat. “What if she finds her way back into the Whitetails? Little miss fucking nature lover’s already set fire to all the Bliss; wouldn’t put it past her to start shooting puppies if it meant keeping you from making more Judges.”

“Okay, I can see this is upsetting you a little-”

“It’s all a domino effect, Jake. We’ll be back to square one if we don’t take care of this.”

It _**was**_ a domino effect. He didn’t know when the chain reaction had been set off, but he’d been a factor in it. From losing her after the Cleansing, to failing for 3 whole years to convince the woman to just give the Project the time of day. It had started with him, and now, like a weed, it was strangling their paradise from the inside out in its infancy. 

John’s entire body had seized, chin jutting, eyes boring into empty space. “She needs to be controlled. I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

He’d grown so focused on his snowballing thoughts that he’d failed to note Jacob’s gaze, scrutinising and judgemental. Something akin to embarrassment bubbled in his chest, like his older brother had caught him committing some sort of taboo. The words ceased to form in his mind, lest he make too many of his thoughts known. 

“Jesus, Johnny... _ **That’s**_ why you’re going to all this fucking effort?”

John couldn’t find it in him to reply. He was near shaking with rage. 

“You’re _**still**_ pissed about that Deputy?” Jacob’s gaze burned into the side of his head, voice dripping with disdain. “Buddy, you gotta rein it in. You can’t let this get personal.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” John growled.

_**Keep. Calm.** _

“No? I know you put in a lot of hours with that woman in the past, but it’s just another sinner. You cannot let yourself down down this road-”

“Like you did with Eli?”

“I never had some weird puppy love for Eli.” Jacob snapped back, immediately calling John’s jab. “You need to drop this fixation, and fast.”

_**“Fixation?”**_ John snarled, finally shifting his gaze to meet his brother’s. How dare he. One off-handed comment from years ago, and Jacob was using it as ammunition to drag his name through the mud. Fuck him. Fuck _**him**_ and fuck _**her**_.

“The only one with a ‘fixation’ of any kind is Joseph. If it were up to me, she’d be rotting in the ground, but instead, she’s just allowed to run around the county doing whatever she pleases because _**"** **Tha**_ _ **t’s the will of the Father"**_. 

Jacob opened his mouth to retort, but John was too far gone, skin prickling all over.

“One insignificant, inconsequential little girl, just unpicking all the stitches we’ve been sewing for the better part of a decade, and he’s just fucking _**letting her!**_ ” John went on, voice catching in his throat when some raw emotion decided to intervene. That was it. The rage boiled over. 

The mug left his hand, smashing against the wall.

Jacob hardly reacted. His gaze just sat on John, who had begun to shake in the afterglow of what he’d just done.

“Mistake after mistake, and Joseph’s still running around, showering Faith with support and praise. I’m the one helping out. I’m the one taking care of things, and he doesn’t even look at me. I get the blame. Nothing else. It’s like I’m already banished-”

“Woah, hey.” Jacob’s hand clasped John’s shoulder, drawing the Baptist to his chest, and John near melted. The action was just as stilted as always when it came to Jacob, but the human touch was enough to disperse his temper just about instantly. He made no move to reciprocate or shift away, simply absorbing the moment.

There was so much he wanted to say. To express his doubts. His shame. His paranoia. His worries that somehow, Joseph could peer into his soul and bear witness to everything deep within his subconscious. Jacob would understand in part. They both had their doubts about aspects of the Project, but both remained truly loyal to their brother at the end of the day. John just feared that loyalty wasn’t enough. That the Father had already deemed him unworthy despite his efforts. That his soul was too tainted no matter how many times he atoned. That Joseph’s prophetic vision could extend to the stolen pair of underwear in the bottom of John’s coat pocket. He’d taken them thoughtlessly, as a trophy, but now, neither brother would likely believe his intentions. Almost ten years sober, but he’d always be their addict brother. No matter the real reason, it wouldn’t be a good look if they knew.

“Joseph isn’t angry with you.” Jacob assured, pulling John away from his thoughts. “You _**know**_ he’s always been like this. He’s introverted. Talks to that voice of his more than he talks to the rest of us. Leader or no, he can’t always be there to pat you on the head and tell you you’re doing good.”

The Soldier pulled away from him then, keeping a grip on John’s shoulders and fixing him with a tight smile. “Anyway, you’ve always got me. Not as angsty as you and Joseph can get, or as…vocal, but I’m here. We’re in the home stretch, John. We just have to keep our heads above water, and keep our trust in Joseph. Faith’s a big girl. Just let her do her thing.”

His words were comforting. John found himself mirroring that tight-lipped smile, and offered a nod.

Jacob detached from him. Both men looked down at the mess of smashed ceramic and tea on the floor. 

“Clean your shit up and go shower. Cool off.” Jacob ordered, turning on his heel and heading for the living room.

“Can do.”

* * *

John found Jacob couched on the floor, rummaging through an old pile of DVDs when he returned.

“So what’s the deal, Johnny? You want me to stay over, make sure you don’t get any night terrors? I remember you used to get ‘em when you were anxious.” Jacob spoke, not even bothering to look up.

John rolled his eyes. “Yes. When I was 4. You can go, Jacob.”

“I’ll go when I’m sure you won’t be smashing up any more dinnerware. In the meantime, let’s watch something.”

“Joseph doesn’t want us watching screens anymore unless it’s for the Project.” John replied simply. 

Jacob didn’t answer. He just held up a copy of _‘The Goonies’_ with a wolfish smile. An hour and a half of escapism to a simpler universe. It was tempting.

John couldn’t help the chuckle that crept out of his throat. “It’s not happening.” He insisted, causing his brother to waggle his eyebrows.

“' _Do the truffle shuffle'._ ” The Soldier recited lowly, unmoving. “' _Do it. **Do it**._'”

It was silent for a moment. John fixed Jacob with his best attempt at a hard glare while the other man simply grinned back.

_**“Fine."**_ John finally gave in. "But if I go to hell for watching a movie about pirates, you’ll be hearing from me.”

“You’ll go to hell for dressing like one, that’s for sure.” Jacob shot back, already setting up the DVD player.

“I do not dress like a pirate.” John grumbled, spinning around both to go find himself another cup of tea, and eject from the conversation. “And who are you to talk, anyway? I’m not the one begging to watch a kid’s film.”

“ _ **I** ** _’_ m**_ secure enough in my masculinity not to have to pretend to hate kid’s stuff.” Jacob protested from across the house. 

Luckily, the kettle was still hot to the touch. All it took was a moment to brew.

“That much is clear, G.I. Joe.”

No comeback to that one. John smiled to himself, taking a moment to think.

“What about _‘Home Alone’_?” He suggested.

“Uh…-” Was all that came back.

“Might give you some fun trap ideas for the Whitetails-”

“John, get in here.”

Jacob’s tone had changed. Authoritative. John immediately acquiesced, blood running cold. When he returned to the living room, he found Jacob still on the floor, glancing from him to the TV screen. On it, sat Joseph, blotched and puffy, cheeks shining with tears. His eyes had been rubbed raw. He sat alone, breathing into the empty space around him. 

Then: _”A seal has been opened.”_

Beside John, Jacob exhaled.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, there's a bit of angst in this one. John feels some emotions, and Jacob...look, he tries. He tries to be a good brother. Meanwhile, Joseph is as much an enigma as ever.
> 
> I'm very sorry if indulgent character study wasn't what you were hoping to find with this chapter! If it was your cup of tea, then I couldn't be happier. On top of that, thank you for your patience with me getting this one out! Learning how to write Jacob has been a slog, and I'm still a little shaky with him, so please bear with me. I just love the idea of him being a little bit boyish underneath that military facade. 
> 
> Thank you <3 
> 
> My tumblr is baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	8. Holiday Road

Faith was dead. 

The Henbane had fallen.

It took all but one week after Joseph’s broadcast for the Cougars to assume control over what had once been Eden’s Gate territory. Surviving members of the Project were chased out; refugees in what was supposed to be their Holy Land. The fit and strong (as well as the vengeful) were quickly processed and relocated to the Whitetails, while the rest were to be housed by John. 

Namely, Angels. 

He fucking hated Angels, but taking them in felt like he was at least honouring the dead in some way, even if it meant just shoving them in a pen somewhere with routine food and water. 

Faith was dead.

Yet there had been no corpse to hold a funeral for. No cremation. Joseph had already given his eulogy. Looking at it from the outside, John thought, it was an interesting situation; despite being in mourning, no one could stop the train they were on. The Collapse was still coming, and until it arrived, it was more efficient to just forget the woman existed. Remove her from the emotional core of the Project, as if she hadn’t been their famed Siren. The woman in their family photo was no one. It had always just been the Seed brothers. They’d done it before, several times. Rachel Jessop wasn’t the first iteration of Faith, and John wagered that, should they manage to get ahead of schedule, she wouldn’t be the last. 

John stared up at the wooden ceiling, blowing a lock of unclayed fringe away from his face. Early morning light always made the ranch interior look so fucking dull.

He should’ve felt accustomed to this by now. He should’ve felt grateful for her demise, if anything. Faith had been his direct competition; his unwanted responsibility. The loss of the Henbane, while a huge frustration, meant that he was finally back to normal working hours. He was sleeping again. He was eating again. Hell, Joseph had even resumed contact with him. Everything was easier, and yet, rage still boiled away within him.

Faith was _**murdered**_ **.**

He mulled over these thoughts all week amidst his growing animosity toward her killer. He indulged in them, truth be told. There was something validating about having a real evil to tie his enemy to. He didn’t just hate that Deputy over a matter of losing a dog, or burning a field, or freeing captives. She was a killer. A murderer. She’d killed someone he cared about, and hating her for it felt good. 

Witness reports from the night of Faith’s death varied only slightly; her efforts to take the County Jail ended in failure. She’d attempted to protect her followers, sealing them prematurely in her bunker to shield them from the Cougars, but they’d been followed. While the sinners spilled into the building, slaughtering the Project’s most loyal, Faith herself was sighted with the Deputy. 

Neither had been armed. Faith was simply giving one last attempt to win the woman over, and for it, she was dragged into the river by her hair. The Deputy had struck her face until she could no longer breathe through her nose. She held her head underwater until the Siren’s movements ceased. John knew what that would’ve looked like - drowning her - and it made it all the more easy for his imagination to paint the image on the back of his eyelids. It was an act he’d committed in righteous anger many times to the unworthy and the unwilling; the visual repeated so many times across his memory that it was nearly impossible not to imagine his own hands being the ones that held Faith under. 

It had prompted the thought: was this somehow also his doing? Would that Deputy have had the gall to commit such an atrocity if he hadn’t inadvertently shown her how to carry it out? Perhaps there was a deliberate message in the action. From her to him. _’You drown mine, I drown yours.’_

John exhaled, pulling his gaze from the ceiling and sitting up in bed.

No. She didn’t have the attention span for that.

Faith was dead. There was no special message behind her killing. It was simply an agent of the Devil, doing what they did best. Spreading pain. Anger. Making changelings of the best people in his life and placing darkness where light had once occupied. Still, it played on his mind. The rumours all diverged from the moment Faith died in the story, from Faith’s body being desecrated or burned in the Jail as a warning, to floating downstream and out to the lake that bordered the Compound. The Deputy had either vanished into thin air or gotten caught up in the explosion that ruined the bunker. Anything that led to the woman’s demise, John knew to be fabricated. 

She was out there, somewhere. 

It just remained to be seen whether she’d pursue Jacob or himself next. Maybe now that she’d stolen the Marshal back, the two of them would make another attempt to escape to Missoula. Maybe she’d feel remorse for what she’d done and simply hand herself over. 

Faith was dead, and John was spending all his time wondering what her murderer was up to. _’Fixation’_ murmured at him from the back of his mind, echoing Jacob’s words from the other night, rumbling deep in his ears until the distant putter of a plane on the approach drowned it out. 

John had mulled over those words since first hearing them, and he’d since come to the conclusion that his brother was being foolish. What did Jacob know, anyway? The advice was faulty and hypocritical; it came from a man obsessed with a bitter rivalry. 

Raising the issue, however, did steer John in the right direction. Jacob’s frankly unwarranted counsel had prompted him to ponder exactly _**why**_ he’d been so panicked over her rise. He’d been caught at a low; terrified for his reputation and resources. After Faith had ended her career with the family so spectacularly, though, that anxiety subsided somewhat. His poor sister had set the bar so low - and all the extra sleep - all the extra nourishment - all the extra attention her failure brought him had pulled John into enough of a high to view this situation through a lens of perfect, absolute clarity.

What he was feeling was the beginnings of a fresh competition. 

It wasn’t anything to panic over, and it wasn’t unreasonable to think about, he’d told himself. He was simply being prepared. Ignoring Deputy Stammos had granted the woman the ability to grow into a monster in the first place; one that had murdered a person he’d grown to care for. Who posed a danger to his followers and to the harmony that he’d exerted over what was now _**his**_ valley. 

Something stirred in John’s chest at that thought, tugging at the corners of his lips. Mirth. He wished he could be there to see that Deputy’s face when she heard that the region now belonged to him, despite all her efforts to prove otherwise. She’d fucking hate it.

He pushed himself out of bed and padded over to the window, observing as the unmistakable yellow seaplane, Carmina, touched down on the airstrip outside. Her engine stuttered as she slowed to a careful crawl. The newly-attached rotary cannon glinted in the early morning light. John’s smile widened.

It was shaping up to be a good day already. 

His foe may have had a month to gather a funny little band of misfit followers in another region; she may have picked up a trick or two along the way, but time hadn’t stood still for John while she was off pillaging and soiling her soul. No matter how many people she killed over the past month, and no matter how clever she may have thought she’d gotten, he’d already been at this for years. 

He was stronger, smarter, and his influence reached further. He had no reason to be afraid of the Deputy returning to the valley. A little rivalry never hurt, and frankly, he was _**excited**_ at the prospect. Being the Herald to capture her? To be the one to hold her accountable for her crimes? God, what a fitting reward for all his work. After all those hours he’d put into the years leading up to now - restraining himself from simply strangling the little imp before she had the chance to evolve into the demon she’d become; after all this time, it would only be sweeter, managing to make a follower out of her.

There would finally be a victor emerging from the power struggle they’d shared. He’d _**f** ** _i_ nally**_ break through that rigid, unchanging, infuriating expression. She’d scream in his face and claw at him while he extracted her sins from her, all that impudence dissolving at long last. She’d cry into his arms, confessing every nasty detail of her evil existence. She’d sing _’yes’_ over and over, writhing on the floor, new and reborn before the Father and before God. She’d praise John, the Herald whose patience and virtue led her to atonement. She’d beg for forgiveness. Beg him to take her, body and soul. Own her. Possess her spirit completely. Fuck her mouth and unload all over her tits- 

_Fixation. Fixation._ Jacob’s murmuring returned. 

John flinched. His heart lurched and his core seized.

_**It wasn’t.** _

Fucking sinners; not even one’s thoughts were safe from their reach. 

She was just one issue to fix his attention on. He had to remind himself. The Deputy would show her face again soon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stop to smell the flowers along the way. 

He’d get his recognition in due time. He’d surpass the expectations of the Father and solidify his place in Eden. 

His gaze flickered back to Carmina outside, reversing steadily into the hangar beside the Affirmation.

Until then, all the little trophies along the way would be his guiding path. 

* * *

  
  


The Hope County Jail had been abuzz with foot traffic all morning. 

With the news spreading across the region that the Henbane had been liberated, overseeing everything had become even more busy than it had been with the Peggie occupation. Now that it was safe for remaining residents to leave their hiding places, the Cougars had found themselves seated with over a thousand refugees in need of shelter, food, water, and clothing.

There was no skipping town. The only roads out of Hope County either followed the border along the Whitetails, or shot out the bottom of Holland Valley. 

The Cougars had taken it upon themselves to free the region, and now it was time to help heal it...only establishing a government during a holy war was easier said than done, especially when most of the Mayor’s newest bureaucrats were minor league baseball players.

It was a steep learning curve for everyone. Tensions ran high, but support came in from every direction. Folks were finding their feet - leaning on each other. Tracey had taken to preaching ‘A Tight Ship’s a Happy Ship’, and as the days drew on, her words bore more truth. 

The makeshift infirmary was brimming with wounded Cougars and Peggies alike; Dr. Lindsey overseeing the scattered cots from the reception desk. Every other seat in the room was occupied by either a panicked stranger or a tired ally. Hasty conversations and arguments shot from one end of the Jail to the other; doors never getting the chance to close thanks to the volume of people passing back and forth. 

A strained exhale slipped through Virgil’s nostrils as he squeezed himself into the lobby, leaning heavily against a makeshift cane with each stride. He was unsteady, unaccustomed to the aid, but forcing his way through it.

Dr. Lindsey sprung to his feet upon seeing the man, catching up easily when Virgil veered in the opposite direction, toward the office adjoining his own.

“Virgil, you’re supposed to be resting-”  
“I can’t hear myself think. Better off sitting and working than sitting and losing my mind.” Virgil insisted, wincing slightly when he stopped at the office door and twisted just a little too much to regard the doctor. A hand instinctively swiped over his side, halting just short of pressing against his sweater vest. He waved in dismissal when Dr. Lindsey advanced once more to steady him. 

“Go put on your pin, Charles.” He continued, pushing the door open and allowing the muffled volume of the debate within to spill into the lobby. “That’s the best assistance you can give me right now.”

The Mayor then slipped into the office, closing it off from the outside world once more. The moment his presence had been announced, the room fell quiet. Whitehorse, who’d been sitting at his desk, immediately stood, vacating his seat to Virgil. Marshal Burke, still a little worse for wear, leaned against the tabletop. Tracey and Deputy Stammos each stalked the room with crossed arms, both as irate as the other. 

Whitehorse and Virgil exchanged a look; long-suffering. They’d all been here before.

“Salutations, all.” Virgil muttered, hobbling over to the desk, momentarily breaking the tension.

“How’s the hip?” Tracey asked.

“Still has a hole in it. Don’t mind me.”

The man’s newfound dryness was a recent dimension to his personality, but it hadn’t been unwelcome. The shot he’d taken to the gut during the night of the attack had almost killed him. Had Tracey not come to the rescue, Burke would’ve taken both Virgil and himself out. The attack had sobered the Mayor, somewhat - made him into less of a pushover. Forced him to take helm in the face of adversity rather than bend to it like he had to Joseph once upon a time. 

Between himself, Tracey, and Whitehorse, the three of them had the confidence of the community to lead everyone through the war with Eden’s Gate. 

The three of them. 

There had been one person in the Henbane region who disagreed, and she saw fit to immediately acquiesce with Virgil’s sentiment. 

“Thank you. As I was saying: Sir, you _**promised.”**_ Cora complained, jabbing a finger at the Sheriff.

Exasperation reverberated through the rest of the group. 

“Pastor Jeffries has been waiting over a month.” She continued, ignoring a groan from Tracey.

“And you’ve wasted an entire week trying to change his mind.” The other woman added.

Whitehorse stuck his thumbs in his pants pockets, tired but holding his ground. “I know I promised, but things change. I don’t think anybody expected collateral damage on this level. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. We can’t give you any of our guys, and that includes me.”

“Honestly, I don’t understand why we just don’t march to the border and stampede over the fuckers.” Burke interjected, earning himself a collective glare. Still as gung-ho as ever, even after what he’d been through under Faith’s control.

“With all your bright ideas, I’d wager you reckon we’ll sing Kumbaya at the Chosen.” Whitehorse shot back. “Maybe have a slumber party at Seed Ranch in our jammies and get a complimentary hamper on the way through.”

“Aw, shut the fuck up, Sheriff.” 

Whitehorse turned his attention back to Cora then, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Burke. “You see this shit? Human stampede. This is why I’ve gotta stay, Rook.”

The Deputy pinched the bridge of her nose, teeth grinding together at his refusal. “How do you expect us to take over the biggest expanse of controlled land in the county without a leader?”

“Is that not you?” Tracey asked, earning an affirmative shrug from the Sheriff and a look of absolute horror from his subordinate.

“You forget you were at the front of every one of our assaults on Faith.” He added.

“By your order.” Cora protested. “You. All of you. You told me what to do-”

“I don’t recall any of us giving you the idea to cut off the Bliss, or of luring Faith out into the open.” Virgil piped up. “We’ve been leading the recovery, but you’re the one who’s been leading the Cougars through the fight.”

Tracey nodded. “You don’t need us.”

Cora fell into quiet indignance, as if staring down the group might somehow get one of them to budge on this. 

“You and your team took back the Henbane. Sticking it to some powdered lawyer will be a cinch compared to zombies.” Whitehorse’s hand clapped down on Cora’s shoulder. She avoided his gaze when he moved in front of her. 

“Your job description’s changed, Rook. This is what you do now. If it’s orders you need from me, all I can tell you is take back Holland Valley, and break John Seed’s nose. Jerome and Mary May’ll guide you the rest of the way.”

“Do I have to take _**th**_ ** _em?_** Can I at least go alone?” The Deputy whined. “They’re so...loud.”

Whitehorse chuckled, letting her go. “Welcome to leadership.”

She was out of arguments. The only way through was forward. 

“Okay.” Cora said with a huff, relenting. “Get me a car.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  


It was still early enough for the mist not to have risen from the hills. Autumn had begun to roll in, and the fog provided good cover along the roads in the region. The same wouldn’t be said for the flat lands down in the valley, but hopefully, their approach would go unnoticed by any Peggies on the lookout and spare them the extra few days trek.

Out in the Jail parking lot, the team were preparing to leave. Hurk hauled a bag into the bed of a repurposed Peggie truck while Adelaide and her ‘physical and spiritual aide’ Xander already sat aboard, pawing at each other. Jess paced the length of the truck, cigarette smoked down to the filter idling between her lips while she toyed with the pulleys on her bow. Sharky was supposed to be helping Hurk load the vehicle, but he was spending the majority of his time throwing sour looks at Xander. Half the reason he’d suggested his aunt for the job was to get Adelaide away from her boyfriend, but he’d inadvertently shot his own foot by telling the woman she could bring a friend. 

He’d confided in the Deputy later on that he’d assumed she was referring to the ‘MILF variety’.

It was an odd situation to say the least, but Cora had learned to use Sharky’s strangeness as a sort of canary down in the mine. The man had nerves of steel in the field, and beyond his romantic rivalry, there wasn’t much that overwhelmed him. When Sharky, of all people, deemed something to be too much? That’s when it was time to call it. Over the past few weeks, her relationship with the arsonist had grown symbiotic enough that Cora was willing to put up with the less palatable aspects of travelling with him - mainly how vocal he was about wanting to put his penis in his cousin’s mother.

Looking past that, and the criminal record...and the drug use...and the fur suit he insisted on packing in place of a real change of clothes, he was a sweet guy. He didn’t hold people to expectations and despite his abrasive nature, he was sensitive to social cues.

Cora might’ve even ventured to say she’d grown to like having him around.

Boomer danced about her legs while she and Whitehorse carried supplies out of the building. In Cora’s arms, a couple of gallons of water; In the Sheriff’s, a cardboard box. 

“Towers around the valley are still scrambled to shit, so once you get across the river, you won’t be able to reach us without doing something about them.” He reminded, gruffly.

“In that case, you’re probably not gonna hear from me until we’ve secured the region. Unless the shit hits the fan.” Cora mused, slinging one carton into Hurk’s arms and dumping the other over the tailgate of the truck. “As handy as it would be for hopeful news, it’s still advantageous that Eden’s Gate are pretending everything’s business as usual. Keeps them out of your hair, and we can still go unnoticed for as long as we can.” 

Whitehorse set the box down, pulling the lids open and tugging out a slip of mossy green material. “That makes this a little obsolete, then.” He grunted, passing it to her. “It’s one of Hudson’s spares, but I think I didn’t do too bad a job. Don’t mind the pin. Virgil insisted.” 

Cora shot the man an expectant look, unfolding the bunched material. It was a Hope County Sheriff’s Department uniform, still stiff and unworn. _**‘C. STAMMOS’**_ had been shakily embroidered into the breast pocket, and above it, a sew-in patch reading _**‘HOPE COUNTY COUGARS’.**_

The Deputy found herself at a loss. Whitehorse was right; donning this on the way into Holland Valley wouldn’t exactly be the most subtle entrance, but she’d sorely missed her uniform. The sight of it brought a slight swell to her chest - one she recovered from with a clearing of her throat.

“I’ll wear it to the border.” She elected, slinging the shirt around her shoulders and adjusting the buttons around her wrists. The action caught a smile from her superior.

“You’ve got this, alright?” Whitehorse assured, shifting in his subordinates field of vision when she attempted to look away in avoidance of the incoming pep talk. “John’s no more dangerous than he was when you used to make house calls.”

“C’mon, Sheriff. It’s fine. Just wing it, right?”

“Just don’t let yourself become afraid of the guy. He might be able to throw an army at you now, but he’s still the same guy who used to shit his pants when you’d come knocking.”

Cora unhinged the tailgate for Boomer to hop up and looked around for the remainder of her team, all the more keen to leave now that things were bordering on the sentimental. “Holland Valley squad, get in the car or get left behind!” She barked before turning back to regard Whitehorse. “See you in a month or two, should everything go smoothly?”  
Whitehorse rolled his eyes, treading backward toward the building, realising his cue. “Kick ass and bring Joey home for Christmas. She’s the only one of you I can bear to tolerate.”

“Aye aye.”

When Cora swung back around to open the driver’s seat door, she found Sharky and Hurk each trying to wedge themselves into the passengers' side of the cabin. Neither had any intention of giving in soon; both planting palms on each others faces and kicking their legs to push each other out of the vehicle. The truck rocked with each squirm, and Cora watched on with already waning patience. 

These were her two best men. 

Adelaide rapped her knuckles on the rear windshield. “Boys! Knock it off!”

It was to no avail. The games had well and truly begun. Not even Jess shoving her boot through the window and putting an entire leg between the two men seemed to do the trick.

Cora reached into the vehicle. Jamming her palm against the horn also had no immediate effect. After about half a minute, however, when the noise showed no signs of subsiding, the sheer annoyance drew Sharky and Hurk’s attention.

“Shorty, could you fuckin’ stop?”

“Yeah bro, what’s the deal?”

Shaking off the gathered tension in her shoulders, the Deputy climbed up into the cab. “Get in the back. Both of you.”

Sharky’s outrage would not be contained. With a final kick, he sent Hurk barrelling out of the cab and onto the asphalt. “Say what?! No way! Someone’s gotta ride shotgun. Someone’s gotta be your lookout.”

“Sharky, it’s a car, not a ship.” She deadpanned. 

“Second in command?” 

“Easily the dog.”

“Best friend?”

“You’re _**not**_ **.”**

Silence.

Cora’s attention was on the road, more pressed on simply getting this trip over with than with Sharky’s wounded gaze gouging at her. She didn’t even notice him slip away. 

The door closed, leaving the Deputy pleasantly alone in the cabin. At least, until the door squeaked open once again, allowing Hurk to clamber in beside her with a victorious grin. He was buckled in before she could even react.

“Alright brosephine-ay, let’s get this show on the road!”

Adelaide whistled her agreement from the truck bed, sliding the rear window open. “Choir boy huntin’ time.”

Cora snorted at that, twisting the ignition and stepping on the clutch, drowning out some of the disgusted groans around the vehicle as Adelaide proceeded to launch into an all too well thought-out scenario involving herself and their target.

Annoying as they were, she could get through this. Just a couple hours’ drive through the hills. Everyone in the car had a unified objective, and that would hold them together. They were a team, and because of that, she could spare them her patience. 

* * *

She lasted 20 minutes before the scabs on her knuckles began to split over the steering wheel. 50 minutes and Adelaide’s storytime still had no end in sight. An hour and a half in? Cora now had a very clear visual of her enemy in handcuffs and varying compromising positions.

It was not pleasant, and judging by the collective objections from the rest of the team, she wasn’t the only one who found it overwhelming. 

“-so picture this: hands bound, we’ve got that part covered-”

“-in painful detail-” Jess hissed, pinkies wedged in her ears while Adelaide spoke.

“- a little beat-up, because, well you know, the fucker deserves it. On his knees, head against the ground, ass _**up.”**_

Cora could’ve sworn she could taste ground enamel from the sheer ferocity of her clenched jaw. Initially, it hadn’t been so much the content of the conversation so much as the absolute **_lack of escape_** that had been irritating her. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure her assurances to the Sheriff were true any longer. 

She wasn’t sure she could even bear to look the Baptist in the eye now after suffering through this. She was afraid this image was all she’d be able to see.

_Eyes on the road. Just keep concentrated. Count the landmarks. Hell, count the roadkill._

“Aunty, I’m gonna blow my brains out if you keep talkin’ about John’s ass.”

“Can it.” Adelaide shot back over at Sharky. “So, ass up - and he’s rock hard in those tight little jeans of his, and he’s _**beggin’.**_ Better yet, imagine being the one on the ground beggin’ **_him.”_**

“STOP, MA!”

“Oh Hurk, grow up. This is why you’re still a man-baby approaching 40.”

“I do not need to hear this from my own mama. It’s doing me some serious psychological harm. Dep, make her stop!”

“Hey now y’all, don’t talk to your mother that way-”

“DON’T YOU TELL ME HOW TO TALK TO MY MAMA, XANDER. YOU AIN’T MY DADDY, YOU HEAR ME?”

“Shorty, 12 o’clock!”

Sharky’s pointer finger shot through the rear windshield and into the cabin between the roaring Hurk and the Deputy on the verge of exploding. His pointer finger aimed straight up ahead at a roadblock patrolled by at least a dozen Peggies yet to notice the approaching vehicle. 

Imminent danger.

“Oh thank Christ.” Cora breathed, earning a look from both the cousins before twisting the steering wheel, forcing the truck to veer sharply to the left, off the road and into the trees. She’d already wrenched the handbrake and thrown herself out of the vehicle by the time the crew had recovered.

“What’s the plan?” Jess asked, standing from her spot. “Take ‘em down?”

“Take a breather first, everyone.” The Deputy waved, clambering up a mossy crest to escape her company, and while everyone else exchanged bewildered looks, Boomer leapt out of the truck bed to follow his master, all too happy to stretch his legs.

“We’ve been taking a breather for almost 2 hours.” Xander mentioned.

Cora pinched her brow, disappearing from view. 

_Not her._

Once she’d gotten herself far enough away that the bristling of pine needles had begun to muffle the bickering voices of her team, the blonde allowed herself to lean against a tree trunk. She took a swift intake of breath and held it, forcing the sound of blood pumping through her ears to replace the residual ringing. The tensing of her muscles faded over the next few minutes; as did the temptation to just keep walking into the woods and leave the group behind. Calm eventually overtook. 

They’d reached the bridge. They were almost in Holland Valley. Soon as they reached Fall’s End, she’d be able to be rid of her company once more. She could hold out. 

Her gaze tracked Boomer, weaving through the trees, sniffing along the forest floor before stopping at a shrub. His body went rigid, nose pointing straight up at a little house finch that hopped from branch to branch. She missed being that ignorant. 

“Y’know for someone so bossy you sure seem to have a problem with being in command.”

Cora glanced over her shoulder, finding Sharky on the approach. He’d found himself a long stick at some point, and walked in-step with it, like a wizard with his staff. She rolled her posture, still leaning against the tree trunk to vacate a spot for him. His sweater brushed against her uniform as she returned her attention to the house finch.

“I get jealous of that dog, sometimes. You ever miss just going about your own business?” She asked. “Like, not paying attention to the bigger picture?”

“Nah, I still don’t pay attention to the bigger picture.” Sharky answered simply. “Not about it. That’s your job.”

Cora huffed. Not the answer she was looking for. 

“Did you, uh...did you really mean what you said about us not being besties?”

  
The Deputy’s silence answered Sharky’s question for him. He shifted beside her.

“Ouch. Well, I was _**gonna**_ say that I used to think about it a little. All the cult shit - wonderin’ if Joseph Seed’s not so bad because his people are nicer to gay folks than the born-and-bred locals. Y’know, they don’t just make the ladies do all the cooking and cleaning and whatever. It makes - well, _**made**_ it a lot easier not to think about, knowin’ I was out wrecking their shit because my best buddy said it was cool.”

Something clicked, then. An inkling that something was wrong.

Cora turned her attention to Sharky, raising an eyebrow. “What I said back at the County Jail. Did that upset you?” She asked.

Sharky shifted again, pursing his lips and crossing his arms. His gaze flickered away from hers as soon as she locked eyes with him. 

“...Li’l bit.”

Shit. Not good. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have really paid someone’s hurt any mind. Sharky was different, though. He’d become the one exception to her social aversions, as much as the idea of confessing such a thing repulsed her. She didn’t want to give in, but she didn’t enjoy the knowledge that she’d actually hurt him.

She elected to strike a balance, at least.

“Sharky, you know I’m not about that kind of thing.”

“Hey, it’s whatever. I know where we stand. Just didn’t think you’d be so nonchalant about it.”

“But for the record, it should be worth mentioning that I can count on one hand the amount of people I’ve enjoyed being around. That’s in my whole life.” She pressed, nudging the man’s arm with her shoulder. “You’re one of them. You’re...not awful.”

“Not awful.”

Sharky considered that for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched. It might not have been the same words he’d use for it, but the message seemed to translate. 

“You making a pass at me, Shorty?” He muttered, shooting her a look and returning her nudge. “You know I’m spoken for.”

“Shut up. I’m trying.”

“Well, for the _**r** **ecord-”**_

A branch cracked behind the two, and Cora leapt away from the tree, hand on her pistol.

Huffing and puffing, beads of sweat sheening on his shoulders, Hurk made his way toward them. 

“Oh, hey amigos! Havin’ a deep and meaningful?” He hollered. Despite the insinuation that he’d walked into a private conversation, Hurk continued on his way, wedging himself between the two. He was even taller than Sharky, and so when he raised his arms to drape around his company's’ shoulders, the deputy almost received a face full of wet, non-deodorised armpit hair. She twisted only just in time to feel it press against the back of her neck.

“Ain't this great? Y’know, you spend so many years tryna travel the world and shit, become enlightened and all, and you forget just how much exploring there is to do in your own backyard. No airfare, no injections in my ass cheeks.”

Hurk tugged his teammates closer, bending down to the Deputy’s level and dragging Sharky with him. His cousin’s sour expression went unseen. Now was clearly not a good time. Hurk either didn’t care or didn’t notice.

“And y’know what? This ain’t even solo! Yep. Feels kinda like a big old family road trip, ‘cept instead of my daddy yellin’ at everyone from behind the wheel, it’s a tiny cop lady.”

“Need a hand with something, Hurk?” Cora cut to the chase, already eager to worm her way out.

Hurk’s head swivelled from side to side for a moment before nodding his affirmation. “Just a couple of us were wondering what your plans were.”  
Reality set back in, pulling the Deputy back to her duty. She ducked beneath Hurk’s arm and spun on her heel to head back to where they’d come from. Hurk detached himself from Sharky, shuffling in the opposite direction.

“I’ll catch up - gotta go take a leak, but I’m all shook up from the bumpy road so who knows how things’ll end up.” He called, disappearing amongst the bushes.

Cora staggered her pace, jamming her hands into her pockets and allowing Sharky to catch up. When he did, she shot him a glance. “You were saying?”

Sharky shrugged his shoulders. “Only that the dog you’re so jealous of right now is rolling in a raccoon carcass. Take whatever metaphor you want from that.” 

After successfully luring Boomer away from the dead animal he’d been bathing himself in, the two found their way back to the truck. Another 10 minutes passed before Hurk rejoined the crew, relaying (in just as graphic detail as his mother’s imaginings of John) to them the nature of his bowel movements before settling into the discussion.

“We’re gonna have to ditch the truck.” Cora announced, pulling a collective groan from the group. 

“Can’t we just blow ‘em up?” Sharky whined, hot on the Deputy’s heels as she tugged her pack from the trailer, watching her shrug off her uniform and stuff it into the main pocket. Despite their protests, every made their way to their own belongings.

“No can do. We go around, through the river.”

Jess was next, slinging her bow over her chest. “So they’re left alive? Sounds to me like you’re turning chicken shit, Dep.”

Cora huffed at that. “John isn’t like Faith; not to mention, he has Hudson. The moment he catches wind that we’re here, he’ll be after us. There won’t be any sitting and hoping we’ll see the light.”

“So what, we’re just gonna cower in the grass and let his sheep get away with their shit?” Jess’s tone turned venomous, bitter.

If Cora was to be perfectly honest, she was itching for a fight almost as much as Jess seemed to be. All the anxious energy already buzzing through the crew was beginning to gnaw at her, and that one method she’d picked up over the course of the past month was more tempting than she was willing to admit. Give into the stress response. Fight. _**Use**_ the adrenaline her body was offering up on a silver platter and enjoy the following rush of endorphins and ensuring calm. She was more effective as a leader in a fight. She didn’t know diplomacy.

But she had to be strategic, all the same. She had to be smart. As tantalising as it was, taking that path was taking the ignorant one. That was Boomer rolling in roadkill. Instant gratification. Thoughtless. No bigger picture. 

“We’re gonna lay low and beeline for Fall’s End. Pastor Jeffries is waiting for us there. He’ll be able to fill us in on what we’ve missed. If we don’t, we could all be dead in a matter of hours. Remember to fill up your canteens.” The Deputy pulled her pack over her shoulders, tucking her shotgun into the side. 

“And we’re not gonna cower in the grass. We’re going for a swim first.”

* * *

  
  


The sun was shining high in the sky when Fall’s End crept into view.

They’d been trekking through overgrown pastures for hours. Cora had initially been thrilled at the prospect of smelling that crisp valley air for the first time in a month - manure included - but as the team hiked West-bound along the empty road, it became clear something was amiss. The grass hadn’t been mowed on just about every plot. There was no unmistakable afternoon smell of cattle shit; hell, there were no cattle in sight. No farmers tended the land. If it hadn’t been for all the green still covering the expanse, one could have mistaken the place for barren. Abandoned. 

The comparative silence across the plain was infectious. There was something foreboding about it that stirred everyone into a silence that lasted most of the hike.

“Where is everything?” Xander finally asked, more a stranger to the area than anyone else. 

Vocalising the answer was tougher than Cora would have expected. She knew the words she was looking for, but using her mouth for them felt like a manifestation. Like she was willing it into existence with a diagnosis. Not even Hurk or Sharky ventured to reply.

“Gone, sweetheart.” Adelaide murmured. “Faith makes converts, Jacob trains an army, and John makes sure they’re well-supplied.”

“Even the animals?”

“Probably either on a private paddock or already ground up in a freezer somewhere, like that stockpile in Faith’s bunker.” Jess growled. “Cult’s gotta eat. When you use up all your productivity suckin’ the Seeds’ asses all day, you might as well wash it down with someone else’s food and drink.”

“They even stole all the cow poo.” Hurk whined.

Cora squared her shoulders, busying herself with just staring straight ahead at the blurry sprawl of the tiny town.

“This is what the Reaping looks like.” She mentioned, “Get used to it. We’re gonna be passing a lot of empty houses while we’re here.”

A sigh escaped from Adelaide. “Y’know, I sold a few of the properties ‘round here. Hate to think of what happened to the people who lived here.”

“Aw, that’s nothin’ to do with your fault, Aunty.” Sharky blurted right as Xander opened his mouth, seizing his opportunity for brownie points. “It’s asshole bottom feeders that swoop in and _**steal**_ shit like John Seed. Hey Shorty, didn’t the Sheriff say you had a couple ‘o’ run-ins with him back in the day? What was he like up close and personal?”

Cora could practically feel the entirety of the teams’ eyes on the back of her head as she walked. 

In truth, she hadn’t thought much about what the man used to be like. Shooting at her with a .50 calibre machine gun was enough to reset their timeline in her mind. They’d had continued history after that point, but she’d been drugged for most of the interaction. 

Before then, however? 

“Annoying.” The Deputy answered truthfully. “Kinda like a fly.”

“Couldn’t give us anything a little more heated?” Adelaide sighed. “Any elaboration?”

She hummed in thought at that, caught on the spot and now trying to reach for memories she’d never really accessed before. All that was available without the aid of deep thought were random threads of argument from all of her old house calls. 

“Oh, I got it. You know those guys you meet in Model UN? The ones who always show up in a suit and boss everyone around, and you kind of get the vibe that they think they’re smarter than everyone else?”

Silence. 

It occurred to her too late that she was likely the only one who’d ever been involved in such a thing.

“You mean you?” Jess asked, wrenching a bark of laughter out of Hurk. 

Cora’s ears reddened, already regretting giving an anecdote to make her point. 

“Forget I said anything.” She grumbled. 

The sooner they got to Fall’s End, the better. More attention on clear, constructive issues and less on _**her.**_

They continued along in returned silence, unable to hold onto the momentum of their banter with their leader incapable of taking a joke. Xander attempted to whistle a tune, only to be shut down entirely by a scowl from the woman.

As the group neared the town, however, Cora slowed to a halt. Closer up, just a few hundred feet away, it became clear that not unlike the pastures they’d passed through, something was wrong. No cars were passing in or out of the town despite the afternoon sun. No distant shouts from locals. No church bells. 

The only sound emitting from the town drifted over a loudspeaker; words unclear from their distance, but if one listened hard enough, the owner was easy enough to identify. 

It was John’s voice.

Cora’s stomach dropped, fingers barely feeling over the pair of binoculars that Hurk was trying to slide into her grasp. 

Peggies patrolled all visible streets. Rooftops. All that remained of the Sheriff’s Office was an old pile of charcoal and warped metal framing. 

Draped over the Fall’s End church sat the stark black and white flag of Eden’s Gate.

“Shit.” Cora breathed. 

Sharky hovered over her shoulder, spotting what she saw, and whistled low.

“So this is the kind of shit Model UN teaches you to pull off, huh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are well and truly back in town. 
> 
> Meanwhile, John's getting a little...weird.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading <3 Getting to interact with y'all always makes my day.
> 
> Find me at baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	9. Peer Pressure

The journey had come to a standstill.

Every part of Cora’s plan had been riding on the idea that Fall’s End would’ve held strong against the Peggies; that Mary May and Pastor Jeffries would’ve been able to hold out long enough for her to bring help, or at the very least still be engaged in the conflict when they arrived. Instead, the town lay emptied of residents, swarming with Peggies, and covered in Eden’s Gate imagery. Loudspeakers that rarely saw use, reserved for blizzard and flood warnings, now played John Seed’s ranting preaches on loop. 

She could feel the collective eyes of her team on her, expecting some sort of immediate Plan B, but there was none that she could offer. 

Instead of action, the Deputy called a halt, and they set up camp for the remainder of the day at the foot of the Fall’s End radio tower. The perimeter was partially walled, shielding them from view of passing patrols while still granting them the ability to escape should their presence be noticed.

While Jess and the boys rested their legs, Cora had tasked Adelaide with scaling the monopole to survey the town. She was the most height-friendly among them, already accustomed to views from such an angle, and happy to take her own break from the squabbling. Not to mention that, in Adelaide’s words, ‘climbing pole’ was one of the things she did best.

Cora did not get the joke. 

She busied herself with pacing the site for the next hour, trying to simultaneously plot their next course of action and avoid the creeping intrusive thoughts that had come with this situation. 

Fall’s End had been taken. Jeffries had asked for her help. She’d denied him with the assurance that he’d be able to handle the situation until she brought the Sheriff back to the region. She hadn’t even done _**that.**_ There was no trace of the man, now. His church had been boarded up, as had the Spread Eagle. The leaders of the Resistance were likely either dead or in a cell, and Cora had denied them help when they requested it. She hadn’t been there. This was her doing. _It was all her fault. She should’ve been there, and she wasn’t, and now they were in a world of shit._

There was no superior for her to look to for guidance. No calling to request orders or a second opinion. There was no home base to return to without skipping back over the river with their tails between their legs. There was only the Deputy and her team, without any idea of what the fuck they should do now. 

Conversation had ceased in Adelaide’s absence. The only voices that filled the void were the occasional Peggie radio chatter as Hurk surfed channels on Cora’s hand-held, and John’s distant preaching. She couldn’t remember him ever shouting around her; he’d always kept a steady tone, save for wavering pitch when he’d argue his traffic infringements. Now, the passion in his voice bordered on manic, like a dictator. Raving. Stirring his followers into hypervigilant loyalty. Without the interruptions and with the repetition of his recordings, it was easier to make out his words with each loop. 

_"...those unprepared will descend into madness, but **we** will thrive...for I have claimed every part of this valley in the name of the Father…"_

Something ugly stirred within the Deputy when that phrase echoed through the air. Something that clawed at her muscles, begging her to move beyond twitching fingers and a bouncing leg. Despite all the trouble she’d had finding clear memories of the Baptist earlier, images of that high-angled, V-shaped grin of his flashed through her mind. No fucking way had he gotten the green light to control this area. She refused to believe it. Holland Valley had always been protected; it wouldn’t have just been handed over to some real estate tycoon like him as if this were some big business venture. 

She’d defended the ecosystem of this region against anyone who dared damage it, for 3 whole fucking years. She replanted uprooted saplings. She put out wildfires. She monitored the wildlife population and the pH level of the soil. Holland Valley had been hers to protect, and John Seed had claimed every inch of it. He had no idea how to do any of those things. He’d turn her sanctuary into a dust bowl, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

That man had interrupted every aspect of her peace. There were no more morning drives in to work - there was a swim across a river toward a smouldering pile of ashes. There was no bird song or whistling tree while his frantic voice belted from the loudspeakers. There was no sleepy town that she’d once hated walking through for fear of being spoken to - only a fortress. 

He’d even stolen the smell of the place.

_"...If you try to resist, you will be purged…"_

Cora’s gaze flicked back to the little settlement across the plain. 

It felt almost as if he was talking directly to her at that moment. As if he’d anticipated the spike in her anxiety at his words. Loss of autonomy, or loss of life. Abide his terms or die. Those words alone were a temptation to test her luck with taking on the occupied town. An invitation to walk the streets with her shotgun at the ready; take out as many of his followers as she could just to state that no, she would resist, and no, she wouldn’t follow the course of action he’d set.

The Deputy found herself seated with an odd sense of loss amongst the brewing bitterness in her core. A fleeting longing for those old days when her conflicts with the Baptist only drew as far as a debate, or a high-octane co-reading of a new land permit he’d flaunt at her. It wasn’t a feeling of mourning; not quite - it bordered more on outrage at his actions. Consistent with her general rule, she’d never considered the man a friend, but, thinking about it -

“Dep!”

Cora’s head whipped around at the sound of Hurk’s voice, yanked away from her thoughts. Returning to the group, she readied a pointed ‘ _shh!’_ , but found herself already being collectively shushed the moment she stepped back through the gate. 

Adelaide remained a speck up on the monopole overhead, while everyone else had gathered around Hurk and the radio in his hands. It scratched and squealed as he adjusted the dial, searching for the clearest sound amidst the Project’s deliberate interference. _’-plane...wife...gate…-’_

“Christ, hand it over.” Jess hissed, wrenching the radio out of Hurks hands and taking over. Within moments, the survivalist struck the right balance.

_"-need help…”_

“It’s on a loop.” Jess tossed Cora a glance as the blonde squatted down to listen closer, waiting for the recording to replay.

_"...Mayday. This is Nick Rye at the airport. I think the cult might be after my plane. If there’s anyone still out there - please - we need help. My wife’s pregnant. I can’t leave her. Repeat: Rye residence. Eden’s Gate’s comin’ for my home. If you can help, please, **please** help us…”_

Cora’s lips pursed in thought, considering the opportunity. In her periphery, Xander’s hand shot toward the radio, and her own snatched at his wrist, swatting him away with a snarl.

“Do _**not** **.”**_ She warned.

“We’ve gotta help ‘em.” The man protested with a wounded look, prompting Hurk and Sharky to nod along. 

“That’s _**Nick**_ , Shorty. Like, _**the**_ Nick. Everybody knows Nick.”

“I know who he is.” The Deputy snapped. “Don’t answer.”

Jess seemed to be the only other one on the cautious end of this scenario, pushing herself up to stand by their leader. “We respond to this - we may as well light a bonfire for the cult to find us.”

“So we don’t help?” Hurk frowned. “I don’t wanna be a downer or anything bro, but that uh...that sounds kinda shitty.”

Cora shushed the man and reclaimed her distance from the group, fingertips creeping to her temples to try and massage the thoughts out of her brain. Nick Rye was a complete nincompoop with a history of being a pain in her ass. She didn’t trust that man as far as she could throw him, but if he hadn’t been taken yet, then he might have some idea of what happened to the people of Fall’s End. Paying the airport a visit, at the very least, might give her some semblance of a plan going forward. 

There was also that plane of his. 

Months ago, she’d demanded that the man remove the customised machine gun he’d attached to the aircraft, but now that they were outgunned and caught without the support of the Cougars to back them up...that unauthorised weapon suddenly felt like a very appealing option. Especially if John was trying to get his hands on it. Nick was a deadweight, but that plane was an asset she couldn’t afford to pass up. 

Waving up Adelaide up on the tower, the Deputy waited for the woman to descend before relaying her thoughts to the team. 

“Those of you who know the Ryes-”

“All of us.” Sharky interjected, earning himself a glunch.

“- will be aware that their plane is weaponised. If we get to it before the cult can, that could shape up to be advantageous. Taking back Fall’s End won’t be nearly so much a death wish if we can secure it. We help them - maybe they’ll help us in return.”

Xander made a face halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Not because it’s the right thing to do, what with the defenceless pregnant wife and all, or that they’re begging for help?”

“Huh? Oh. Sure, that too.” 

“I vote yes,” Adelaide shrugged, lodging her thumbs into her pockets, “Beats sittin’ ‘round here. Plus, if that pilot’s shoulders were stirrups, menopause be damned, I’d book in for a smear every day of the week.”

“Aye for me.” Sharky supported, followed by a nod from Hurk, both of them wincing.

Cora hadn’t been aware that her team had any choice in the matter, but the illusion of democracy was soothing. They weren’t agreeing because it was on her order; it was because they supported the motion. She found her confidence bolstered by it, just a little. 

Jess held up the radio, then, an expectant look on her face. “Question is, do we answer the call, or announce ourselves with a fight?”

“Neither.” Cora answered, throwing a look toward Fall’s End. “John’s not going to know we’re here until I say so. Everyone, maintain a low profile, and put down any Peggie who sees us.”

There was no containing Jess’s delight at finally having permission to kill. “You got it, sis.”

“We’ll take the road South from here. Anyone travelling to Seed Ranch is gonna be heading in the same direction as us, so stick to the trees, and we’ll worry about ticks later on.” The Deputy ordered, watching her team once again slinging their belongings over their shoulders. “Move out. Quicker we get there, the better.”

As the team departed the outskirts of Fall’s End, they fell into their usual banter, bickering and giggling amongst themselves while they entered the mouth of the forest. Cora’s attention, however, remained on the town long after it disappeared from view. However distant, she could still make out John’s voice, carried across the empty plain behind them.

_”-...Can you see the glory of the Project? Can you feel God himself, squeezing your heart, pumping your blood through your veins, cheering you to do all this good work?”_

Was that supposed to be an attractive concept? 

Fucking creationists. 

* * *

Drawing near to Rye and Sons, the group grew increasingly aware of how quiet it was. 

Despite Nick sounding almost frantic over the radio, there were no shouts or gunshots crackling through the air to signify that Eden’s Gate _**were**_ infact, encroaching on his territory. Cora’s first instinct was to assume that he’d been lying. He’d been dishonest in the past. She’d almost convinced herself that this was the case until Adelaide voiced her worry that the Rye couple may have already been abducted.

“Find cover. They might be around, somewhere.” Cora had ordered.

Weapons at the ready, they snuck onto the property and took point among the bushes dotted around the old weatherboard house. Nick’s truck sat in the driveway, engine ticking with residual heat. Still no sign of any Peggies. Not after 5 minutes. Not after 10 minutes. 

“Dep? I do not think anyone’s gonna show.” Hurk eventually piped up, earning himself a hasty shush from the Deputy.

“Nah, man. The ultra- ** _turbo_** -Peggies are on the prowl.” Sharky whispered from his own bush across the way. “They believe so hard in God that they’ve gained the ability to turn invisible and go full ghost-mode.”

Finally, Cora rolled her eyes and stood up straight, wading out of the shrub she’d concealed herself in and marching up to the front porch. There, she paced around for a few more moments, whining to herself. ' _Please_ ,' she thought, 'l _et Kim be the one to open the door_.' Ascending the stairs, she peered at the windows. Boarded up behind the glass. Same went for the door. No indication of a break-in, but no indication that anyone was home, either.

Knocking twice, she sighed, and stood back, glancing over her shoulder at the six faces watching expectantly from their hiding places. When she turned her attention back to the door, she found it pulled open an inch with the barrel of a hunting rifle sticking out of the gap. She wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or offended that the gun was aimed high over her head, but it was clear that whoever was inside had another, taller target in mind. 

The moment she cleared her throat, the barrel shifted downward, correcting itself toward her face.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be gettin’ off my property and not lookin’ back.”

Christ. It was Nick.

“Mr. Rye, I’m gonna go ahead and request that you lower your gun before I kick your shin and place you under arrest.” She ground out impatiently, opting for a threatening approach. In hindsight, a kick to the shin probably didn’t cut it.

The door inched open, just enough for Nick to peek out behind the fly-screen. Upon spotting Cora, his expression morphed into exasperation.

Truthfully, Cora had grown to indulge in folks still having their reservations about her presence. Her reputation in the Henbane had changed over the past few weeks, and it hadn’t been for the better. Where locals once detested having her around (preferable, in her opinion), acting as one of the primary figureheads in ridding Faith of the region had made her into something of a friendly face. People greeted her; asked her about her day. Told each other not to worry when she rebuffed their smalltalk. The Deputy didn’t have bedside manner, but what she lacked in charisma, she made up for in spirit, they’d say. She was a people person where it mattered: inside. She was...appreciated, for lack of a better term, and it was a nightmare she’d barely grown to tolerate. 

It was nice to see someone not beaming at her for a change. 

“God Almighty.” A growl escaped Nick as he pulled the door open, delighting Cora in his irritation. 

The fly-screen swung forward.

Then, to Cora’s absolute dismay, Nick Rye tumbled out of his home and enveloped her tightly in his arms, squeezing the air out of her lungs and lifting her boots off of the porch.

“Shit, Deputy, I can’t believe you’re here.” The pilot crooned, burying his face in the woman’s hair while she attempted to grapple with the shock-horror of being manhandled in such a way, gawking into the middle distance over Nick’s shoulder. “I dunno what to do.”

That was the moment her team deemed it safe to leave their cover, each of them approaching the house with a range of greetings - Jess and Xander hanging back on the driveway while Adelaide and Sharky beelined for Nick, and Hurk drifting around somewhere between, more preoccupied with squinting through the boarded windows in the hopes of spotting Kim. 

Nick didn’t seem capable of registering the crowd, stammering his way through names and exclamations in lieu of a comprehensible sentence. After a few attempts, he managed to convey his gratitude that everyone on the property had managed to evade the Reaping thus far, all while the mob gathered around him noisily with shoulder-claps and (in Adelaide’s case) ass-taps. Everyone was so caught up in the reunion that they failed to notice the Deputy trying to squirm her way out of Nick’s arms until a muffled shriek escaped the woman.  
With a muttered apology, the pilot set Cora back down on the porch, leaving her simultaneously stiff as a board and bent out of shape by the trauma she’d just experienced. He stepped backward into the house and gestured inside, inviting the group to follow him into the living room. Inside was a mess, but not ransacked. Belongings had been stacked haphazardly around the place, ordered according to sentiment and essentials.

“Who is it, Nick?” Kim’s voice crept from the second storey.

“Whole buncha friends.” He called back, teeming with hope.

“Heard your tune on the radio as we were comin’ into Fall’s End.” Sharky delved, noting the Deputy still short-circuiting while her faithful heeler worked on bringing her back to the present with a persistent lick of her fingers. “Fuckin’ empty out there. You must be some of the last folks this end of the valley not to have been hit.”

Nick’s smile faltered at that. He refreshed it as he glanced up the staircase, keeping a happy face for his wife as she waddled down the stairs. Despite being in her second trimester, she was showing early, and her small frame didn’t aid how dwarfed she was by her own stomach. 

“Yeah, if only.” Kim huffed, making it to the ground floor with a grunt.

Cora snapped back to attention at that, brow furrowing as her gaze flitted from Nick to Kim and back. “Come again?”

Kim took the reins while Nick twisted away from the group, as if the very thought was enough to make him crumble. His reaction alone was enough to confirm the destruction of Cora’s plan of action yet again, and her jaw set in irritation before Kim even spoke.

“The Peggies already came through.” The woman muttered, applying a little rub to her husband’s back as she passed into the living room. Everyone cleared out of her way; a mixture of prior respect and reverent fear of her bulging belly stirring the usually rowdy team into something resembling courteous. She paced in front of the kitchen counter, piled high with smaller necessities - maxi pads, antacid, toothbrushes, keys, socks and underwear, all sitting atop stacks of envelopes bearing the P.E.G cross. Some were opened. Most weren’t. 

“You guys are too late.”

“They took Carmina.” Nick breathed through the words, steadying his tone. “They took the goddamn plane.” When he turned back to regard Cora, his eyes had grown red and puffy, hastily blinking away wetness. “That was our one ticket outta here, Dep.”

His desperation was lost on the Deputy, who simply crossed her arms, visibly displeased by the news for the wrong reason. “How long ago did Eden’s Gate take Fall’s End?” She asked, turning her attention to Kim in search of a more rational response.

“About a week ago,” Came the answer, “Most of the locals got dragged down to John’s bunker. A couple of families have been on the run, camping out in the woods.”

“Hear anything about the Pastor or Mary May?”

An expression Cora didn’t recognise flashed across Kim’s face. Almost disappointment, but more morose.

“Stayed put. Last I heard, they’d barricaded themselves with Merle and Grace in the church. Peggies were happy to starve them out. That was days ago.”

That news was more hopeful than Kim seemed to realise. It ushered in a wave of relief, washing its weight off of Cora’s mind. Not all was lost. The heart of the Resistance might’ve still been intact, even if it seemed unreachable. She could formulate something from that. She could go up into the hills and find those in hiding. Strengthen their numbers-

“They’re doin’ the same to us.” Nick piped up, glancing at Kim. “Bastards start shooting as soon as they see my truck on the road. They won’t let us go 2 acres over on the ground. We’re trapped.”

The pilot made a move toward Cora, pressing his hands together. “We’ve gotta get outta here, Dep. I have to get my family away from this. If there’s _**any**_ chance you could help me take back my plane, we were s’posed to use it to get ourselves to Canada. Kim’s got family-”

“I can’t do that. We’re trying to keep our heads down.” Cora answered simply. Several heads whipped in her direction, gobsmacked.

“What?!” Jess barked.

Adelaide pinched the bridge of her nose while Xander and Hurk crossed their arms. 

“Deputy, please.” Nick uttered weakly, spurred on by the popular vote. 

“We can’t afford the risk.” She insisted, throwing a scowl over her shoulder at the rest of the group. “After all the steps we’ve taken to stay hidden, you all want to jeopardise that?”

The Deputy could feel Sharky’s presence drawing near. Then, the back of his hand nudging her arm. 

“Shorty, I don’t think there’s any steps left.” 

The glare on her face weakened at his reasoning, and when she made one last-ditch effort to shoo him away with a hardened gaze, she only found herself softening. Damn, that fucking canary. Couldn’t he have held out for just a little longer before calling it?

Sharky lips pressed into a thin line. “We had a good run, but we might just be outta choices. Maybe the best way to announce ourselves is by helpin’ someone out.”

A heavy sigh escaped the little woman, and she turned her attention back to Nick. “If I bring back your plane, can you help us free the others in Fall’s End?”

“I’m sorry.” He croaked. “The moment we get Carmina back, I’m getting my wife over that border. The most I can give you is my thanks.”

After a quick look back at her team to check if they’d _**realised**_ they were putting their asses on the line purely for the sake of altruism, Cora found their faces still steeled against her. She’d initially enjoyed that illusion of democracy, but now that she was outvoted on something, she decided that the entire concept could fuck right off. She had no choice but to surrender, and for that, her mood was growing more foul by the second. Had it been some other, more mundane task, she mightn’t have been so averse to the idea of lending a hand, but this? This was a suicide request with no possible light at the end of the tunnel. Just a pointless journey into John Seed’s guarded property. 

She should’ve taken her chances with Fall’s End.

“The rest of you, stay here and keep the property clear of Peggies. Soon as they see that plane in the air, they’ll be on their way here.” Cora droned, fully turning away to regard her team, taking her radio back from Jess and ensuring that Nick paid attention to the frequency she tuned into, just in case of an emergency. There was an applied logic to her reasoning, but overshadowing it was a sour need to be alone. To stew in her irritation. 

A whine sounded from Boomer, who’d taken to sniffing at Nick’s hand. The moment the man reached out to touch the animal, Cora sounded a discouraging hiss, ordering the dog back to her side. 

“Except for Boomer. He’s with me. I’ll be damned if I think leaving another dog in your care is a sound idea.” 

Nick’s expression turned annoyed at that. “I keep tellin’ you, that weren’t my fault.”

Cora spun on her heel and made for the door, pulling herself away from the conversation before she got too invested, grumbling under her breath as she walked. A thought occurred to her just as she pushed on the screen door, however, making the woman lean back into the room and fix Nick and Kim with one last look.

“Either of you know what day it is?”

They exchanged a look of their own.

“Thursday.” Kim answered.

For fuck’s sake.

“Of course it is.”

With that, she headed out, leaving her team to stand awkwardly around the Ryes’ living room.

Sharky, for better or for worse, was the one to break the ice. 

“Dude, my brain is makin’ two whole options for this. Either you fucked a dog or blew it up or some shit. You gotta tell me what happened or I’m gonna decide outta those.”

* * *

The sun was well on its way to setting by the time the Deputy and her hound approached Seed Ranch. A few hours to herself had done well for the woman’s mood, and travelling alone with Boomer through the forest had a pleasant nostalgia to it. The comparative quiet calmed any nerves she might’ve had in drawing closer to John’s property; paranoia drowned out by sparrows and warblers trilling their night-time calls. 

Most of the North-Eastern wing of the ranch had been situated nearing a drop-off, forcing the two to make a dash across a few empty roads to get closer to the property. In hindsight, Cora thought that placement was probably more deliberate than she’d previously realised. The views from the cliff face lining one side of the property had always been spectacular, but they also offered a shield from invasion. No one lived any further South than John, and with hills to the West and an expanse of nothing in all other directions, it was as if Eden’s Gate had placed him there with the expectation that it might one day be under large-scale attack. 

Probably in the event of the place being mobbed during the Collapse. 

Alternatively, maybe Joseph had just been all too aware of his younger brother’s aptitude for making hordes of people experience unreal amounts of murderous rage.

However prepared John’s followers had been for a wide-spread invasion, though, it was relatively easy for the pair to slip into the woods that bordered his airstrip. The armed Peggies that patrolled up and down the grassy area failed to pick up on their movement beyond the trees. To be perfectly honest, security around the perimeter was much the same as it had been when Cora had visited previously. The biggest difference now was that their weapons just weren’t concealed anymore. 

Maybe it was her familiarity with the property; maybe it was how many times she’d been here in the past that continued to subdue her nerves. She’d grown so accustomed to sleeping in strange places over the past few weeks that it was oddly pleasant to see something so unchanged despite the danger it posed. Fall’s End had fallen to the Peggies, but Seed Ranch was the same as ever.

They spent the next hour stalking the perimeter, Cora acquainting herself with holes in the security of the place. Drawing nearer to the buildings, remaining at the mouth of the woods proved an advantage. One could see both the main entrance to the ranch as well as the hangar.

The latter held her attention as they approached. 

In the sinking sunlight, the wooden boards of the building shone a dull pink. Shadows had begun to stretch in from the trees that shrouded Cora and Boomer. The roller door of the hangar was lifted completely, and the yellow light from within bathed the surrounding grass in a colder glow. It stuck out like a diorama despite the marvel of the sunset mountains behind.

Inside the hangar, on full display, sat Carmina and the Affirmation; lined up perfectly beside one another. 

Crouched on the Affirmation’s wing, one hand pinning his fringe against his head while the other steadily poured fuel into the integral tank, was John Seed. 

The first instinct that arose in Cora was strong, not dissimilar to what his voice had stirred in her outside of Fall’s End. Violent. Curdling. Wordless and furious, but enjoyable all the same. Some blank promise of cause and effect, as if running across the grass and proceeding to kick the shit out of the unassuming Baptist would pay off in satisfaction alone. 

That man, tending to his plane so peacefully in the mellow of the evening had taken this whole valley from her. He’d interrupted the quiet little existence that she’d once enjoyed. She wanted him to experience that discomfort. She wanted vengeance. Even if it wasn’t with her bare hands, she could kill him from here. A well-aimed shot from across the strip might do it. It was only what, 20 yards away?

She kept her eyes trained on the man, observing as he straightened out and slid off of the wing, walking the jerry can in his grasp back beside a workbench. 

Was that really John? She wasn’t certain.

Crouching down in the grass, Cora couldn’t help but shuffle closer to get a better look. It was such a strange, mundane routine to observe in the man that she felt compelled to ensure this was the same Baptist and the same plane that had almost killed her in the summer.

“Boomer. C’mere.” 

She tugged the straps of her backpack and unzipped the main pocket while she seated herself. The heeler, recognising his cue, sat down and slumped against her leg, all too happy to finally rest after a full day of travel. Cora took a sip from her canteen before shamelessly offering the container to Boomer, sharing her water with the animal.

Here seemed as good a place as any to call their camp; hidden from view - good vantage point, and until the coast was clear for her to make a sprint for Carmina, John going about his business nearby might pass the time well enough. 

Pass the time, it did. 

John stayed out in that hangar for what must have been hours - well after the sky had gone dark. He left only once, racing up the steps of the ranch and disappearing for mere minutes before returning with a bag of trail mix in-hand. He spoke to no one, as if the planes were his preferred company, as if he were excited to be in their presence. He ate quickly and got back to work as soon as he’d finished; maintenance checking, oil changing, cleaning them inside and out. Waxing and polishing.

Cora had never seen him so concentrated on something before. Not even when he’d comb through contracts and warrants once upon a time in her presence. She’d never seen him go this long without speaking - without pushing for a fake, pointed smile. At odd intervals, he’d whistle to himself while he worked, but he was much too enthralled to complete any one tune. 

...

It was actually kind of nerdy. 

Certainly more tolerable without all the mania.

Watching someone enjoying something so genuinely and meticulously almost felt voyeuristic. Enough for the Deputy to consider turning her attention away to give the man some privacy at some point. She had to remind herself that catching him in such a vulnerable situation was a _**good**_ thing. Murderous as he was, he was just another man, and watching him pour his heart and soul into these two planes tonight would only enrichen the act of stealing one of them when the time came. 

She’d have her vengeance. That plane wasn’t just an asset; taking Carmina back would hurt him in some way, and if that wasn’t incentive to steal the damn thing, she didn’t know what was. 

Still, it didn’t feel like quite enough. If pissing John off was going to be the way she’d announce her return, she wanted to make sure she really got under his skin.

Cora’s gaze fell on the workbench within the hangar. A clipboard and paper lay about the scattered tools. Presumably, there’d be a pen nearby. 

She could work with that. 

All she had to do now was wait him out. 

* * *

  
John awoke that morning the same way he had the past few days: at the crack of dawn, flat on his back, well-aware that he was rock hard, and doing everything in his mind’s power to will the inconvenience away. 

_Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. You’re not allowed. You’ve gone so long - don’t fuck it up now._

He’d been making a conscious effort to expel all thoughts of the Deputy from his mind when it wasn’t constructive. Leading up to the recent days, his mind had a tendency to drift; Confessions carried out with his newest guests in the bunker saw him distracted. Disengaged. What was normally such an intimate, exciting, special moment, he recently found himself bored by. Every soul was worthy of atonement, and therefore deserving of his time and attention, but he just wasn’t as interested. Every howl, every shriek, every time he’d inscribed a new sin onto a new body, Deputy Stammos was all he saw in his mind’s eye. When someone begged, he imagined how she might beg. When someone flinched, he’d picture her doing the same. 

He wanted to have her in that chair more than those who’d willingly offered themselves for Confession. 

Jacob was still entirely incorrect in his assumptions, but it was a problem. It was interfering with his work. Not encouraging it.

So, he dispelled her from his mind. Forced his brain to associate her intrusion with a resulting thought. Dead animals didn’t work. Swarms of insects, no. He didn’t **_like_** bringing them to the forefront of his mind, but his parents were a good way to derail any wandering thoughts. Re-imagining Dad’s fingers gripping his 8 year-old arms, pinning him to the floor as if he had the strength or will to fight. The man’s upside-down face, reverently watching his wife across from him while she knelt on their son’s stomach and pulled a blunt steak knife through the boy’s skin. Shallow at first, but every time she’d finish at the ‘H’, she’d begin anew, deepening the ‘S’ and repeating over and over. 

It worsened his mood - made the raised scarring on his chest itch, but as always, it worked. 

Until the Deputy found him in his subconscious, at least. 

She caught him in his dreams. Sometimes in miniscule ways - planting a tree in the backdrop of an imagined conversation, or passing by on a unicycle while he traversed his dreamscape. The typical, mundane, puzzling stuff. Other times, their interactions began as memories - the Deputy writing out yet another ticket he’d never pay, or nagging him to move his truck half a foot to the right, but ending with him seizing control of the scene. In his conscious moments, he would’ve assumed that he’d jump straight to killing her, now that he was in a world that allowed it, but all he did was yell at her. He’d demand _‘Why are you?’_ , as if either of them had any idea what he was talking about, and she never aided him for context. The moment he’d take over, the Deputy would go blank. She’d watch him the same way Joseph watched him when he’d lose his temper, and it unnerved him enough to regard these particular dreams as nightmares.

Last night had been a lucky one. 

If only he could’ve said the same for when he awoke. 

John glanced down at the uncomfortable strain in his underwear, articulated by an impatient, darkened, damp spot. The bulge tensed instinctually, lengthening, as if celebrating its owner finally acknowledging his own cock for the first time in over 12 months. He looked away in an instant, redirecting his attention back to that dull ceiling overhead.

_Go away, go away-_

Once again, John went through the motions of warding thoughts until his failed attempts left him with the last resort of the Duncans. Within mere moments, the temptation subsided, and John was free to go about his day. Begone, intrusive thoughts and debilitating erections; he was the Baptist. He had _**full**_ control over himself, and he had much more important matters on the agenda.

With that settled and disinclined to lend any more time to his subconscious, John jumped out of bed, showered and dressed, greeted his followers, and ate with them. 

Fall was rolling in, slowly but surely, and without the chilly crops in the Henbane at their disposal, it was up to Holland Valley to sow the frost-hardy produce through winter. That meant breaking down teams for separate working sites, managing resources, movements, making sure he had time to visit and help out on each location to ensure high morale across the board, and provide a brief sermon, special for those who volunteered their time. Bureaucracy in the morning, manual labour in the midday, and if he was lucky, there would be time for more Confessions in the evening.

Amidst his planning, John heard the rumble of the hangar door outside. Maintenance staff making sure he hadn’t left a mess of the workbench, probably. He appreciated the vigilance. It acted as a reminder to him to get on his way - it wouldn’t be becoming of him to sit around at home while the flock tackled their tasks early.

Bidding farewell to the house staff, John pulled his coat down from the stand and left the house, absently feeling around in the left pocket as he walked briskly to his truck. Fingers squeezed around the bunched up ball of cotton inside. Comforting. Secure.

For fear that someone might find them should he leave them anywhere but on his person, John had taken to checking for the stolen underwear each morning. He didn’t bear to look at them - just felt around to ensure no one had gone through his things in the night. In times of stress during the day, he’d taken to toying with the material akin to a fidget device, but never did he remove them from his pocket. 

He was the Baptist. He had complete control.

Tossing the coat onto the passenger’s side seat, John climbed into his truck and pulled the door shut behind him. He surveyed the area from behind the wheel, turning the ignition and placing his fingertips over the vent to warm them. It wasn’t necessarily cold out, but John was sensitive to the alpine air. It had a bite to it that he was still yet to grow accustomed to, despite having been here for over a quarter of his life. His pores still expected the muggy humidity of Atlanta. 

The grass was still wet with morning dew, glinting in the sunlight - something he’d always enjoyed the sight of. Project members trekked up and down the airstrip, aligning traffic cones in their wake. The nose of Carmina peeked out from around the corner of the hangar.

John paused.

That last part didn’t sound right.

He hunched forward, gripping the steering wheel, squinting through the front windshield. Indeed, Carmina continued to edge out of the building in continuous stop-starts, as if she were being steered by a child. Confusion clouded every corner of him, anchoring him in place and forcing him to just… ** _watch_ _,_** as the bright yellow seaplane pulled onto the airstrip. 

What the fuck was happening? 

Maybe someone was taking her for a test flight. Maybe he’d forgotten a schedule somewhere in the back of his mind. 

He drew closer, gaze following Carmina’s snail-pace until he was looking out of his side-window, fighting against glinting sunlight and the blue tint of the plane’s windows to scrutinise the pilot. Toxic blonde hair and a frown deeper than the Mariana Trench. Almost too short to see out of the windshield. Unmistakeable. Cora fucking Stammos.

John’s stomach dropped. Dread and adrenaline and exhilaration flooded his body, kicking his heart rate into panic-mode while his brain struggled to keep up against all the contradictory chemicals flowing through it.

It was her. The Deputy. She was here. 

Carmina slowed to a stop, and the woman inside glanced around, probably eyeing the control panel. Then, as if she could feel the astonishment radiating from John’s truck, her head turned to find him gawking at her from the window. 

The Deputy stilled, mouth dropping open, as if she’d experienced the same momentary paralysis as him through their eye contact. Seconds passed. John reclaimed control of his arm just long enough to draw it over to the centre console, winding down the driver’s side window with a painfully drawn-out mechanical hum. 

She was here.

And she was stealing his fucking plane.

That one coherent thought knocked some sense back into John, unfreezing his form, allowing him to poke his head out the window and jab an accusatory finger at the woman.

“No.” He enunciated, low and dangerous, as if she’d even be able to hear him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

The Deputy didn’t take her eyes off of him. From the outside, she appeared completely frozen, and for just a second, John ventured to believe he might just have pinned her to the spot with his order alone. _That he had control_. However, still as the woman appeared, Carmina’s wheels began to turn ever so slowly, pulling the plane and its tiny pilot across John’s field of vision, gaining speed, little by little. 

Fuck. Fuck!

John lurched, forgetting his place and launching his body half way out the window at the same moment that his hand yanked at the door handle. He leaped from the car at such a velocity that he was certain the door might crack right off its hinges, and once he’d pulled himself free of the window, staggered to a dash across the parking lot. 

He vaulted clear over the wooden railing adjoining the airstrip and sprinted onto the wet grass, after the accelerating plane. Two of his followers further up the strip, too busied with setting down traffic cones, looked up at the approaching vehicle, and then to John trailing behind it, neither of them registering that the man who should’ve been in the cockpit was very much **_not_.**

“SINNER!” He bellowed, pointing wildly at the plane as he passed, having only a second to catch them kicking into gear in his periphery, scrambling for guns and radios while their leader kept on racing after the runaway vehicle. 

Carmina wasn’t picking up speed fast enough to escape him. His muscles screamed as he pushed himself to catch up, lungs aching when he held his breath and leapt onto the left float. The wind clawed at his shirt as it coiled around the plane, and he clutched onto the wing support, fighting against the howl and dragging himself up to the pilot’s door. 

John’s hand shot for the handle, testing it. Unlocked. Wrenching the door open, his gaze snapped to the woman inside, peroxide locks whipping in the breeze he’d introduced. For a moment, aside from the split-second glance she threw his way, it was as if she hadn’t even registered his presence.

That only served to infuriate him more.

“Been a while, Deputy! I’ll have you know it’s illegal for law enforcement to engage in repossession!” He barked into the cabin, bracing himself against the frame.

“I’d say this falls more under ‘commandeering’, Mr. Seed. You could face a fine for interfering.” She threw back, eyes darting all over the front panel. “Could you tell me how to take off?” 

He was so close to just wrenching the plane to a halt. The panel was within arms reach. 

So was she. 

“Oh, I don’t think so.” John growled.

The Deputy ignored him, jutting her thumb into the radio. “Carmina inbound. ETA 15 minutes, provided you tell me how to get this thing in the air.”

 _"You haven’t flown before?!"_ Nick Rye’s voice howled back through the speaker, and John saw red.

He reached into the cabin, making a grab for her arm. Mere centimetres away when a snarl erupted from the rear seat. The canid jaws of the champion dog closed around his palm before he had a chance to rear away, and bit down, hard. Blunt teeth punctured his skin. 

John yelped at the shock - his body instinctively yanking him away from the animal - and out of the plane. 

His feet slipped from the float, and he tumbled heavily to the grass, rolling to a stop while Carmina sped on without him. The propeller skipped to life, readying take-off, and John willed his bruised body off of the ground to continue his pursuit, this time in the direction of the ranch. 

“Why did nobody shoot at her!?” He bit as he returned to his scrambling team at the property.

“John, you were _**on**_ the plane.”

A good point that he was in no mood for hearing out. Instead, a guttural growl rolled out of his chest, silencing whoever it was over his shoulder who dared reply. “Why are you _**still here!?**_ Get to the airport! Get that plane back and _**do not let that Deputy escape!”**_

With that, he continued on his way, stomping into the hangar with grass-stained elbows and knees. He slid onto the wing of the Affirmation, but stopped short of climbing into the cockpit when he noticed a discrepancy. 

A sheet of paper, stuck over the windscreen. Margined by hand and scrawled on in Deputy Stammos’s cramped, Unabomber-esque handwriting.

_**‘HOPE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT, MONTANA...NOTICE TO APPEAR AND COMPLAINT...DEFENDANT DID KNOWINGLY OR PURPOSEFULLY OR NEGLIGENTLY COMMIT THE FOLLOWING OFFENSE:’** _

_**‘-MECHANICAL VIOLATIONS.’** _

_Mechanical violations._

She wrote him a fucking ticket. 

John straightened out, giving his pride and joy a panicked once-over. There was no mechanical violation. He’d detailed this plane from top to bottom only just last night. 

He jumped from the wing, hastily circling the vehicle. Then he found it. The fault in question. All three customised tyres sat deflated - one of his screwdrivers jutting out of the torn rubber of the rear wheel while the primaries were littered with holes.

Caught somewhere between anguished at the sight of his damaged plane and seething at what had just transpired, John huffed a dry laugh and looked back outside to where Carmina was finally making a shaky take-off. Adrenaline began to subside, and with that came a dull ache in his right hand. Blood dripped from his fingertips. 

She was back. She was back and over the span of five minutes, she’d slashed his tyres, sicced a dog on him, stolen one of his finest assets, and then had the gall to extend an in-joke toward him.

Fucking bitch. The first 3, he could’ve expected from her, but that last insult to injury - it really twisted something deep in his gut.

Since when did she have a sense of humour?

* * *

  
  
  


Bullets were flying in every direction when Cora touched down on the runway behind the Rye residence. Over a dozen Eden’s Gate trucks had packed into both driveways, blocking all entry and exit points for other cars and creating makeshift cover to reload behind in-between rounds of firing at the house. Some bore mounted guns, others, stacks of speakers. Contrary to the silence of yesterday afternoon, Rye and Sons was now saturated in deafening rattles, roars, and hoarse shouts.

Hurk and Adelaide had somehow managed to set themselves up on the Rye’s roof while Jess darted in and out of cover on the ground. There was no sign of Sharky until a particularly large ball of flame curled out from the mouth of the woods.

The moment the Deputy exited the plane, she had little choice but to gun it straight to the house, dust kicking up along her path as bullets sunk into the ground and the piles of scrap laying about the yard. Boomer ran in the opposite direction, beelining straight for Sharky in the trees.

Rounding the building from the rear, Cora found Nick crouched behind the barbeque on his porch, aiming his hunting rifle at a Peggie that dared to charge for the front door. One clean shot to the head and he was down, slumping onto the driveway.

Nick twisted toward Cora after ducking back down, and she skidded beside him, yanking her shotgun free of her pack and hastily loading it, hands shaking from overstimulation.

“Keys are still in the ignition,” She exclaimed over the noise, cocking the weapon, “Once the area’s clear, we can escort you to the plane and you can be on your way.”

“I think that’s easier said than done, Dep.” Nick hollered back. “They don’t seem too interested in fallin’ back.”

Shot blasted over the tops of their heads, splintering the weatherboards of the outer wall and shattering a window, pulling a howl from Nick. Cora launched herself to a stand and aimed down at their assailant before he had the opportunity to reload, pulling the trigger as soon as the barrel aligned with his torso. 

The bang reverberated through her skeleton, and then just as it had at Moonflower Trailer Park, flooded the Deputy with a clarifying sense of calm, suddenly more in her element than she had been in days. Grounded, despite the mist of blood that sprayed her fingers when the Peggie’s throat tore open from the impact of the shot, half-beheaded. He was dead before he hit the ground, and she slipped back into cover without a second thought beyond _aimed too low that time_. 

“You’re pinned here! You need to get on that plane before more show up!” Cora barked.

_**“** **They’ll shoot us out of the fucking sky!”** _

He was right. They were severely outnumbered, outgunned, and low on options. 

Cora unclipped her radio and held it to her lips.

“Status, team.”

 _”Too fucking busy to be answering status updates!”_ Jess’s voice spat back through the speaker. 

_”Fresh outta ammo up here, honey. We need the South end to be cleared before we can jump down, or we’ll be blown to pieces. ‘Til then, we’re sitting ducks.”_ Adelaide came next.

 _”The Dog just pulled a Peggie’s arm off.”_ Sharky panted, heavy footsteps mingling with his voice. _“And he **really** wants it back.”_

Shit. Her heaviest hitters were either displaced or immobilised. 

She had to think of something. 

Cora peeked out at the front yard, spotting 3 more Peggies making a break for the house. Another had climbed up into the bed of one of the emptied trucks and was in the process of rolling her deceased ally away from the mounted gun so that she could take over. The moment she stood straight and swung the weapon in the direction of Nick and Cora, a carbon fibre arrow shot straight into her eye, exiting half way out of her head. The move, however valuable, had given away Jess’s position, drawing gunfire from behind the wall of trucks. Above all the crackling, her sharp shouts of _cunt, cunt, cunt_ punctuated each new arrow she sent flying. 

The crowd wasn’t thinning. She didn’t have enough bullets to count on every Peggie in the vicinity charging conveniently toward the house.

She had to take herself to the targets. _Wing it._

“You get inside! Find your wife!” Cora ordered, shooting Nick a glance and cocking the shotgun once more. She didn’t wait for his response before vaulting over the porch and onto the lawn, right out in the open. 

The best thing about engaging in combat with a standard Peggie, she’d found, was that they lacked experience with unorthodox attacks. Angels attacked indiscriminately; they couldn’t be shocked. She might have been outnumbered, but she still had the element of surprise.

Her thoughts quietened once more when she aimed her weapon at the nearest foe, time slowing for just long enough while she walked toward his charging form. He slowed, face flashing hesitation at his target suddenly making itself wholly available to be shot - then his face disappeared entirely when she pulled the trigger. 

_Finally,_ That same old something cheered in the back of her mind, F _ucking finally._

Cora didn’t wait, instantly reversing direction toward the next Peggie’s legs and shooting out the woman’s kneecap. She stumbled, and the Deputy snapped the butt of the shotgun into the Peggie’s skull, knocking her out cold. 

The third Peggie had enough time to land a hit - sweeping the baseball bat in his grasp up into Cora’s gut and causing the blonde to double over, air rushing out of her in a strangled wheeze. The fluidity of her trance didn’t cease. Her momentum didn’t slow. Even doubled forward, she kept on, grasping for her attackers wrist as he pulled back to land another blow, and shoving him backward behind the cover of Nick’s truck. He stumbled onto his back, instinctively raising the bat in front of his face like a shield, and Cora pulled the trigger once more, filling the man’s head and chest with metal and wooden chips. 

As soon as she was safe behind new cover, the heat of pain bloomed over her diaphragm, and she braced herself against the side of the truck with a heavy breath. Not much further. She just had to duck into the trees and flank the vehicles piling up at the entryway. The more she attacked, the longer she could drag this rhythm out. 

Her hand felt for her pistol in its holster, pre-emptively unclipping it. She fought to steady her convulsing abdominal muscles and even out her breathing against the pain. 

Silence flooded her ears once more. She was ready.

A piercing screech cut through the yard, instantaneously derailing Cora’s action. Microphone feedback emanating from the giant speakers dotted around the area. It was deafening.

_”Brothers and sisters, hold your fire. We have a very special person among us.”_

John. Voice silky and arrogant despite the outage that had been plastered all over him earlier that morning. He bounced back quickly. 

The firing ceased. Peggies lowered their weapons and stood down, some attending to their radios, relaying the affirmative action back to their leader.

_”Deputy, when I watched you leaving with my plane, I couldn’t help but wonder: What’s the angle? What could possibly make your wayward soul trespass on **my** land and steal **my** property? Did you suddenly grow a conscience while you were slaughtering our people in the East? No, I don’t think I buy it. I think you’re saving face. I think we both know that had you been a one-man team, you would’ve left poor old Nick and his pregnant wife to the wolves.”_

Cora scanned the front yard. Adelaide and Hurk peeked over the roof of the house. Sharky and Boomer were steadily making their way toward her through the trees while Jess stayed put, listening. Everyone’s eyes were on her while John spoke. 

_“You don’t **have** a conscience, Deputy, and for that reason, there’s no appealing to your better nature. So, I’ll appeal to your merry little band, instead. Friends, we don’t have to fight. We’re all reasonable people, and I’m sure everyone here could attest to a ceasefire being in all our best interests, right? We all want to leave here with our lives. Especially dear Kim and her unborn child.”_

Her gaze drifted back to the Rye house. Nick and Kim had moved outside, onto the porch. 

_“I have one request: turn in your Deputy, and we will leave. One Confession; one little conversation with me, and Kim and baby Rye will make it over the border. That’s **reasonable** , isn’t it? You’re welcome to disagree, but you will be killed. As will they. Viciously. Personally, **I** think that’s a fair trade.”_

“Bullshit.” Kim spat. “I never agreed to be fucking leverage!”

Cora found Sharky at her side, shaking his head, silently relaying his refusal to give her up. 

_“What do you say, friends? Do you say **yes?** ”_

Jess’s voice crackled through Cora’s radio, then. _”He’s not talking to us, Dep. He’s still talking to you.”_

Jess wasn’t wrong. John was pushing her into a corner. 

They could deny John all they wanted, but if she didn’t volunteer herself, then she’d be confirming what he was trying to plant in their heads. They could stand by their leader, but they’d be doing so in support of a leader who would sacrifice a civilian just to escape John’s audience. He was pushing her to turn herself over in order to maintain their loyalty.

Either way, he had her trapped. Loss of autonomy or death. They both felt just as bad as the other, but after she’d gone to all this effort for that fucking plane...it’d be a shame to see Nick and Kim not on it. 

Fucking self-satisfied, self-aggrandising prick, John Seed and his little mind games. He knew they wouldn’t work on her, so he went for the next closest thing.

She _**really**_ should’ve taken her chances with Fall’s End.

 _“It’s just one little talk, Deputy.”_ John goaded.

“Sharky.” Cora swallowed, finding him still shaking his head.

“Not lettin’ you go, Shorty.” 

“Don’t leave until Nick and Kim are in the air and out of sight. He could be lying.”

“Of course he’s fuckin’ lying! Little talk, my ass - this guy chops people up.”

She stifled a wince. “I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll come back, and if I don’t, get yourself back over the river and tell the Sheriff that the town’s been taken.”

Sharky’s expression hardened while Cora reached for Boomer, rubbing the soft fur on his ears. His tail wagged, blissfully ignorant.

“I’ll take care of your fuck-ugly dog.” The arsonist murmured, and she nodded, giving a silent thanks before pushing herself to a shaky stand, ribs still aching.

The moment she stopped out from behind the truck and made her approach to the wall of Peggie vehicles, the opposition were all over their radios, shooting off updates and awaiting new orders that Cora couldn’t quite make out. 

Clearest of all, she could hear John’s chuckle slip in over the speakers, musical, victorious.

_”Atta girl.”_

Pain split across her shoulder, and Cora’s vision turned a familiar kind of clouded. Her gaze travelled down, finding a little Bliss dart hanging from her flesh. 

She looked forward again, brain fighting against the drug, trying to hold onto coherent thought, locking onto the distant radio tower that loomed over the trees.

Oh. 

She understood now.

Adelaide had been talking about penis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this one, everyone! I've been exceptionally nervous about posting it, what with the double feature length, but I figure it works well given you had to wait double the usual amount of time it takes for me to shit out a chapter. 
> 
> If you haven't come here from tumblr, please find https://baeogorath.tumblr.com/post/634931194055753728/pomegranate-blindpulse-far-cry-5-archive-of attached. Thought I might make a fun little treat.
> 
> Onto my usual bullshit post-chapter deep-dive.
> 
> Sharky continues to be the shining star of morality in this fic, while the hero slashes the villains tyres. Cora remains kind of an asshole, while John...also remains an asshole. 
> 
> It took like 30k words, but John and Cora are back in each other's orbit.
> 
> AS ALWAYS, THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH FOR KEEPING UP WITH THIS FIC!


	10. Tulpa

John felt fucking amazing.

He’d done it. He caught her. He’d apprehended the Deputy the very same day she returned to the valley. 

Part of him had to lend partial credit to the woman herself, honouring her usual affinity for sticking her nose in his business and just about landing herself in his lap, but he’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t been proud of himself for her capture. Had everything gone as smoothly as it could’ve? No. He’d have preferred to keep Carmina in his possession. He’d have preferred not to have scraped knees and a small army of patented Eden’s Gate band-aids stuck over the bite mark on his hand. He would’ve preferred to avoid the near-dozen deaths this all caused.

That part weighed on him the most. Atoned souls, loyal to the Project. It was admirable that they gave their lives for a unified cause, but he couldn’t shake the sense of responsibility that picked at his brain over the matter. Yes, they died for something they believed in, but they did so on his order.

His people. Not Faith’s rabid refugees. Not Sinners. His own personal flock, loyal to _ **him** **.**_ Followers he’d spent time getting to know. People he’d promised to protect in return for their devotion, and now they would never see his promise fulfilled.

He had to shake the guilt. It wasn’t worth stewing over. He had to focus on the win, here.

Yes, there were multiple, unfortunate casualties on the Project’s end, but his own intervention managed to put an abrupt stop to more bloodshed. Just his voice over a speaker had been enough to halt the scene and convince Stammos to turn herself over. 

His voice. Him. He was the one that forced her hand. 

It took a lot of restraint not to speed up to the bunker right away after one of his followers had confirmed the Deputy’s uninterrupted arrival. No more Pastor Jerome to ruin his evening. No more organised resistance to stop him from taking his winnings. A tiny chorus within him shouted over his other priorities: _She’s there. We have her. Claim your victory. Do it now._ Alas, he had to pace the day as originally planned. He just had to get everything else out of the way, and come nightfall, there would be nothing. No distractions. No interruptions. Just him and that horrible, deranged woman in his Confession chamber. 

God, he could hardly wait.

The Baptist seeped excitement as he went about his tasks; a welcome change after the brief foul mood he’d passed through thanks to Carmina’s repossession, and it proved thankfully contagious to the flock. Catching the Sinner that had been plaguing their Heralds was fantastic news, and John himself had once again proved himself worthy of their leadership. He’d vanquished the fabled snake the moment it had entered their valley, and he still had the energy to bounce around work sites, chatty as ever, setting a gold standard for everyone in his wake. 

The man was downright glowing. 

The moment the sun fell behind the Western teeth of the Whitetails, John was back in his truck. He’d ensured Joseph and Jacob had found out about his win through Nancy, and switched his own radio off as he drove, uninterested in another double-edged congratulations until he’d gotten the opportunity to finally savour his victory. He’d passed by the ranch and picked up anything he might have needed - her phone - all the unread documents he’d collected in Missoula and held off reading - the pills and the passport that had been transferred from her underwear draw to his own for safekeeping - a spare set of clothes, because God knows he wasn’t planning on heading back home again that night. Then, finally, the murder weapon; the screwdriver the Deputy had used to deflate the Affirmation’s tyres, packed away in his toolbox. He had a flathead of the same gauge already awaiting him on his workbench in the chamber, but using the same one, if it came to it, felt poetic. She had the gall to bring humour into the equation, so why shouldn’t he do the same? 

He was practically buzzing on the ride up to the bunker. Had it not been dark out, he would’ve floored it all the way up that hill. Only when the mounted floodlights and concrete boxes jutting over the crest crept into view did he allow himself the satisfaction of accelerating just a little. 

Just as quickly as the toe of his boot had pressed down on the gas pedal, though, it eased off completely, bringing the truck to a crawl. 

Amidst the Reaping vans lined up behind the fence, Joseph’s own truck sat in John’s parking spot. The Father himself leaned against the hood, speaking with Nancy. 

Pleased as he should’ve been to see his brother again, John felt something else entirely. Something he instantly elected to ignore for his own sake while he pulled into another spot.

Gathering his belongings, John climbed out of the vehicle and flashed a grin at Joseph’s silhouette in front of the LEDs. The man parted from Nancy with a hand on her shoulder, and as the woman turned to offer her usual polite wave to the approaching Baptist, John glimpsed her face in the light. She was shaken, but smiling through it. She silently made for the entrance, leaving the two brothers alone, barring the Chosen lining the perimeter. 

“John.” Joseph’s ever-serene drawl beckoned, and into his waiting arms John fell, immediately soothed by the invitation alone. Despite full hands and a coat draped over his wrist, their arms wrapped around each other organically, as if Joseph knew just how to mold himself to John’s liking. Whatever he’d felt spotting the man’s truck on the way in had completely washed away in that moment; it was probably just nerves - he should’ve _**remembered**_ that no one’s presence was more comforting than Joseph’s. The Father was always welcome, even if questions of his presence played in the back of John’s mind. Even if of **_all_** moments he’d have wished to get alone, unscrutinised, the man had picked **_now_** to visit.

Oh, but he was so warm, and so open. How his arms wound around John’s back, one hand pressed to the nape of his neck, encouraging him to lay his head upon his older brother’s shoulder. Overflowing with love and security. 

_**No one**_ felt like that but the Father. 

Jacob gave it his best shot, but all that old-school masculinity came with the price of never knowing softness. John wagered the guy might have an aneurysm if he were to be held like this. 

“You’ve done so well.”

“Welcome back, Joseph.” John murmured, gratitude flowing through him.

When Joseph pulled away, John knew his cue to do the same, immediately spinning himself toward the entrance and matching his brother’s stride. As they walked, he could feel the man’s gaze pass over him, regarding the pile of belongings in John’s hands.

“Well-equipped for tonight, I see.” Joseph commented, gesturing to the toolbox.

John suddenly felt scrutinised. Sheepish. He shook his wrist, concealing the band-aids on the back of his right hand beneath his coat. He’d deliberately neglected to inform Nancy about the dog bite and the...unfortunate condition of the Affirmation that had him seeking his ironic revenge.

“It sounded funnier in my head.” He admitted. Then, keen to shift the limelight, he asked: “Nancy have something to say?”

Joseph hummed thoughtfully, stopping to wait for John to pull the door shut once they’d passed into the bunker before commencing his descent down the stairs. “She’s...uneasy. The presence of our Deputy has her experiencing some doubts. Guilt. She’s asked that she be re-allocated to another position for the duration of her stay.”

_She could’ve told **me** that._

“She hasn’t mentioned any anxiety around _**Hudson.”**_

“Yes, well, Hudson hasn’t displayed the same...tendencies as Stammos. I have a feeling she might be in fear of retribution, being under the same roof as someone she sacrificed for the Project. I approved her request. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I would’ve done it myself.” John lied.

They headed down into the heart of the bunker, John greeting excited followers along the way, and then watching as they proceeded to completely lose their shit at the sight of his brother over his shoulder. He was accustomed to the Father having their favour - he was their collective leader after all, but the constant stopping and starting was grating on his patience. He’d been looking forward to bee-lining straight for his Confession chamber, **_alone_** , that night. No pit stops along the way. Now he had both company, and a loss for time. 

The question remained readied at the tip of his tongue - _So Joseph, why are you here?_ \- but went unasked after every silent pause. He couldn’t muster the courage to say something so accusatory; he’d just have to bear it and let his brother go about his own business. It must have been important, and it wasn’t for him to question. 

John deposited his personal belongings in his office while Joseph schmoozed in the corridor, and when he returned, he found the Father alone, awaiting him at the door to the chamber. 

John didn’t hesitate. He headed straight in, brimming with anticipation. The room was set up as it always had been: heat lamps on, chandelier casting all matters of shapes at the shadowed walls. His workbench awaited, prepped. Facing away from the door, nonreactive to their entrance, sat the person he’d wanted to see in this room for years. Everything was perfect, save for his lack of privacy. 

He set his equipment down on the bench, and savoured the moment of turning around to behold the Deputy restrained to his chair. He’d thought so long and so hard about the image of her defeated expression, staring up at him as he approached, pitiful and begging. 

When he turned, though, Joseph was crouched between John and his target. 

The Deputy didn’t look at either of them. Her head hung forward, face obstructed by an outgrown fringe. She might as well have been asleep.

Joseph tutted, equally as dissatisfied with the scene as John. The Father reached up with one hand, fingers tilting the woman’s chin while the other threaded between the locks in front of her face, smoothing her hair back.

A pit formed in John’s gut at the sight, at how this hadn’t been nearly anything like he’d imagined. At how little of a fight the Deputy, who so despised being touched, put up to Joseph’s hands on her. Again, the temptation to speak his mind formed on his tongue. _Stop touching her. That’s **my** job. You’re stepping on my toes. You have no business here._

But the words never manifested, held still behind his chewed bottom lip. 

“Pity.” Joseph’s voice snapped John’s gaze to the side of his face, and the Baptist approached to investigate. “She’s still in the Bliss.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Seriously?” John whined, turning his attention to the Deputy. Indeed, her eyes still held that characteristic glassiness, irises cloudy with the remnants of the drug leaving her system. She found Joseph in front of her and immediately craned her head away, earning another tut.

“No, Cora, don’t hide.” Joseph chided, and the woman acquiesced, focusing back on him once more. He reached back and tugged the band out of his bun, stretching it around his fingers and using it to keep the Deputy’s hair pinned away from her face. The intimacy of the action, and the familiarity with which Joseph regarded her only deepened that pit in John’s core, leaving the Baptist tasting bile. 

Here he was, in his own Confession chamber, feeling like a third wheel. 

The Father and the Deputy watched each other silently, just like they had on the night of the Cleansing, and John stepped back, returning to his bench, excusing himself from having to take part in the interaction. He busied himself pretending to align already perfectly set-out tools.

Thankfully, Joseph didn’t linger. He sighed after a moment, and stretched back out to full height. “I’d hoped to have a moment alone with her in normal waking consciousness.” Then, turning toward John, his brother must’ve caught the irritation he’d been trying to mask. “I s’pose you had as well.”

“Just impatient.” John growled.

“Come.” Joseph moved for the door and tugged it open with less grace than his previous movements. 

John cast a look at the Deputy, reluctant to follow. 

She’d be here when he returned. _**Here**_ , here. Conscious. She wasn’t going anywhere. Just a little more time. 

He could feel Joseph’s gaze hardening on him. 

John finally did as he was told, passing by the woman on the way out, trying his hardest not to spare her a second glance. 

* * *

  
  


The next hour was spent alone in his office.

Joseph had taken it upon himself to find someone to stabilise the Deputy after excusing Nancy from the job, leaving John to twiddle his thumbs in wait behind his desk, stewing in his impatience.

Had he not left that pile of documents in the Confession chamber, he would’ve given into temptation and delved into them by now. He’d done enough sitting around, he thought. After all this time, he needed _**something.**_ Some semblance of a win. He deserved it. But it was too late now, and the off-chance of being caught by his brother sneaking in or out of the room before the Deputy was declared fully awake sent a shiver of anxiety down John’s back. 

It wouldn’t be a good look, and he was already under the microscope.

When Joseph finally returned, he closed the door behind him without a word. Just a small exhale. He crossed the room and settled in the chair across the desk from John, and there he sat in inscrutable silence for a minute or so. 

John almost felt as if the man was looking directly into his soul when he finally looked over at him.

“In the morning,” Joseph began, taking one more moment to consider his words, “I’d like you to send Deputy Stammos up to Jacob, undamaged.”

“I beg your pardon?” The words slipped from John’s mouth before he could even think about them. His blood ran cold, then hot, shooting sparks down his neck, beckoning him to retaliate to such an order. “When exactly did you decide this?”

“Just now. I know this must feel like a disappointment, but we’re running out of time. It’s imperative that she walk the path of the Chosen.”

“Disappointment is an understatement.” He snapped. “What about the Confession? What about her Atonement?”

“I’ll give you the night-”

“That’s not good enough. We have a system. It could take weeks. You know that.” 

Joseph’s eyes narrowed at him, but John was too far gone already. His heart pounded away in his chest, pumping adrenaline through his body. He’d done everything right, and he was still being punished. He didn’t deserve this. This was _**his**_ win. _**His** _capture. 

Once again, Joseph was bending the rules for the one Sinner who plagued him. Favouring. 

He was getting tired of it.

“Please don’t question my reasoning.” Joseph cooed. “It’s for your benefit.”

John averted his gaze to fix the wall with a poisonous glare, trying to taper his anger by mimicking his brother’s squared breaths. It didn’t work. “What reasoning do you have, Joseph? The Voice? Is God telling you this all of a sudden?”

Joseph stiffened in his periphery, closing his eyes and rolling his jaw. The universal Seed indication of irritation. “There are a multitude of-”

 _ **”Then tell me, brother, I’m all ears!”**_ John barked, palms slamming down on desk as he shot from his seat, momentarily towering over Joseph until the other man stood also, utilising the extra inches he had on the already hunched Baptist to fully reassert himself as the Father. 

“Because it’s clear that you are incapable of any logical thought around that Deputy.” Joseph exclaimed, tone as commanding as it was tranquil. 

John could already feel the heat invading his ears. 

He instantly regretted taking this path. 

“Must I draw attention to your botched Cleansing? To whatever happened _**here?"**_ The Father’s hand jabbed at the band-aids dotting John’s hand, causing the man to yank it away and out of sight. “You’re **_indulging_** , John, and I don’t blame you for your blindness to it, but it’s ugly, and dreadful, and its influence will pull you under. I _**will not**_ sit back and allow you to delight in feeding off of her violence. You’re not a warmonger. You’re the Baptist.”

A heavy exhale fell from Joseph then, as if his own words had rattled him. “It’s not your fault. You’re putting so much work into the Project, and I thank you, but your sins go unchecked for it. As did Faith’s. She sacrificed her people and then herself for the same conflict. It was my mistake to leave such a task in her hands, and I won’t let you follow that same path. I don’t know what goes on in your mind, John, but I’ve seen how quickly you develop tunnel vision when it comes to that Deputy.”

John, meanwhile, fought not to tremble. His once-aggressive posture had turned hunched in submission, but the anger in him remained, flushing his face and curling his lip. He summoned the courage to look up at the Father, only to find that Joseph’s expression had softened.

“I know how you used to look at her,” Joseph uttered, and the words bubbled in his skin like acid, “But whatever prior fondness has evolved into _**this?**_ Do away with it. For your own sake.”

John didn’t speak for a moment. His thoughts reeled too fast in his skull. He wanted to scream. Put his fist through the concrete wall. Display to Joseph just how wrong he was. How much he hated the woman in the chamber across the hall, but it would fall on deaf ears and only wind him up in more trouble. Instead, his next priority switched to finding the next best person. The one who could’ve planted this mortifying idea in the Father’s mind. Someone who _**wasn’t**_ too far up the chain of command to be held accountable for this accusation.

“Did-” His voice was a lot smaller than he remembered it being, “Did you talk to Jacob?”

Joseph shook his head, and John could have crumbled right then and there. Dread and humiliation and fury with nowhere to go other than burn him from the inside out.

“We haven’t spoken.” His brother answered, dropping his gaze to the floor. “You have tonight to get your Confession. I know that’s important to you. And in the morning, the Deputy will be passed to Jacob to undergo the trials. I’m sure you’ll see her again once he’s fully adopted her into the family. Consider that something to look forward to. The next time you see her, she may just be protecting you.”

John’s gaze remained fixed in place, even after Joseph passed out of his focus, opening the door.

This time, he lingered. 

“I”m sorry, John. You’ll thank me in the end.”

How dare he use his own slogan against him. The words rang in John’s ears long after the Father had left the room. Whatever fight he had in him at the moment seemed to have walked out with the man, because despite wishing for nothing more than to obliterate his office, the Baptist simply slipped back into his chair. Wordless. Thoughtless. Nothing.

There, he dissociated, staring at the wall without sensation until his office door opened once more, carrying better news.

The Deputy had awoken. The timer had started. 

He had no choice but to make the most of his time. 

He’d get that fucking Confession.

* * *

  
  


When the haze of Bliss finally passed, Cora found herself sitting upright and unable to move. Her wrists were bound to the plastic arms of the office chair seating her, which wasn’t particularly good news, but at least her feet were free to dangle - legs too short to touch the grated flooring below. Her hair had been pulled back, allowing the sting of the lights above to sear into her forehead.

It was hot. Everything around her was red. A workbench sat to her right, decorated with a wide variety of instruments, and to her left, a medical tray bearing a lamp, and a bearded Peggie with a pen torch at the ready. As soon as she regarded the man, he clicked the device on and shone it right into her eyes, pulling a grouchy hum of complaint from her throat. After a moment’s inspection, he clicked it back off again and stood straight.

He exited the room without a word, door screeching open and closed behind him, leaving Cora to blink away the blotches in her vision in order to keep examining the space. 

Despite Eden’s Gate preaching all that pretty imagery of white weatherboards and flowers and linen clothing, this room - a repurposed boiler room, she guessed - was nothing of the sort. Hooks hung from the ceiling, dotted around a deer-antler chandelier characteristic of Seed Ranch. Faith’s bunker had been gloomy, yeah, but this space was designed with discomfort in mind. 

Nevertheless, she was happy to soak in the oppressive silence of the room. Quiet was a rarity these days, and while her heart attempted to up its pace with brewing anxiety, she could at least enjoy a moment without complete fucking sensory overload. 

It was short-lived, of course. 

Again, the door screeched, protesting its own use, and shut heavily behind her. Hastened footsteps and stifled huffs rounded past, and John Seed walked briskly over to the workbench. He seemed frazzled, almost out of breath as he ran his hands over a folder. Other than his movements, he was silent, and for once, Cora found the emptiness disconcerting. 

John’s hand slid a small book from the folder, and he turned toward her, clearing his throat. Nose buried in the pages.

“You’ve been spelling your name wrong.” He said, matter-of-fact, and Cora’s gaze flickered down to the book. A passport. Her passport. Outrage spiked in her at the sight of it, but she held her mouth shut while John drew in another breath, smiling that pointed smile while he read on.

“Kore Stamos, born in Brooklyn, New York - see, I’d _**always**_ wondered why your accent was so generalised - and would you look at that?” John’s gaze lifted to Cora momentarily, inclining his head, knowing. “It’s your birthday next month. Got any plans?”

John flicked the book back onto the workbench and plucked the rest of the folder up under his arm. He crossed the room, disappearing into the shadows momentarily, and reappeared with a wooden stool. “Normally, this wouldn’t be so rushed, but we’re short on time and you’ve got places to be.” He explained, setting the stool down opposite her. His gaze lingered for a moment. 

“Love the shirt.”

Cora’s brow creased, jaw clenched, fighting off creeping embarrassment. The hotdog shirt was supposed to be transitory, but ridiculous as it was, she’d grown fond of wearing it. She had to keep herself angry. She wouldn’t tolerate vulnerability. 

“You stole my passport.” She accused.

“Funny, isn’t it?” John mused, reaching into his pocket and tossing a bottle of little white pills - **_her pills_** \- onto the medical tray between them, followed by the phone she was so sure she’d lost to the river on the night of the arrest. “How long have we known each other? In the past 30 seconds I’ve learned more about you than I have in over 3 years.”

**_”You stole my passport.”_ **

“And you stole my plane.” He dismissed, taking a seat. “As I was saying, we’re going to be doing things a little differently tonight. You’re not the best talker in the world; everyone knows that. You value your privacy to the extreme. You’re _**secretive**_. Whatever sins plague you, they keep you at arms length from the rest of the world. So, we’re going to have a revelation. We’re going to find out _**why**_ , and I brought a little help.”

John’s fingers drummed over the top of the folder, settling it in his lap. “You’re going to answer my questions. We’ll start light. Simple, like a conversation. Just to help you get comfortable. Things will get harder the more we uncover, and that’s normal.”

Cora couldn’t help the humourless chuckle that broke from her throat, nerves brewing away as he went on, eyes roaming her face.

“You can choose to answer promptly, or I can refer to these pages, and we can wade through the information together, slow and detailed, and eventually, I will tear those answers from you.”

“You’re bluffing. Those pages are empty.” Cora muttered, and John shrugged a shoulder, immediately lifting a page in the centre of the stack. “There’s nothing interesting enough about me to fill-”

“Third grade semester report.” He announced, guiding through typed paragraphs with the tip of his finger. “B average across the board. Not terrible. **_Multiple detentions_** \- that doesn’t sound like you, Deputy-...ah, here we go: **_Bottom line comments:_** _‘Interpersonal skills need work. Displays leadership potential at times, and an aptitude for problem-solving. Frequently alone during playtime. Often rejects social advances from peers. Some behavioural therapy may prove advantageous.’_. Ouch. Now _**that’s**_ you.”

She wanted to hit him. She wanted to yank his hair from his scalp. Her fingers clawed at the plastic she’d been bound to, offsetting indignance and mortification at the Baptist reading such a thing out loud to her. Paranoia wrung through her brain as she glanced at all those other pages behind John’s tattooed fingers. Fuck. Okay. He wasn’t bluffing. What else did he have?

His eyes on her felt penetrating, burning with the lamps overhead. She could feel his smile growing sharper by the second.

“What were those detentions for?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Seed, how about you ask me what my fucking sin is and we get this over with?” Cora snapped, and John’s eyes lit up. 

He leaned forward, sliding a hand over his lap, and reached out just far enough for his fingers to brush her knee. An awful shiver ran down her spine at the sensation, and she drew away, granting him yet more space to invade. 

“One thing that I’ve always been confident about when it comes to you, Deputy, is that you can’t stand being known. Something deep down in you finds the idea so repugnant and so terrifying that it bleeds into every facet of your being.” John’s voice had grown quieter, less mocking. His fingers lifted away from her, feigning respect, and he inclined his head down to move into her focus. “I’d _**l** **ike**_ to find your sin. I’m not interested in your elementary school hiccups, but if this is what it takes to convince you to open up, then I’ll drag you through every last gory detail I have on your existence until I find what I need to know.”

_Don’t say a word. Don’t give him what he wants. Don’t look up._

Cora’s gaze finally locked onto John’s. Icy blue eyes, stark against the red glow. 

“One Confession, and you’ll be out of here come morning.” He assured. “Promise. Just let me in for tonight and you’ll never have to do it again.”

“...Deal.” She croaked, swallowing dryness, every instinctual fibre begging her to turn him down and maintain her distance. She had to get back outside. She had to get back to her team. She had to make a compromise. She could dance around this.

John flashed teeth at that response, delighted. His thumb trained over the edge of the pages, absently flipping through each sheet. “So what’s in here that you don’t want me to find?”

Cora’s stomach lurched. That fucking liar. He’d already driven her into another corner without her even realising it. 

If John had noticed the poison in her expression, he didn’t let on. His excited focus honed back in on the text in his hands, flipping through sheet after sheet and humming to himself as he skimmed their contents. “Year after year, more of these _**’interpersonal difficulties’**_ , right up to high school graduation. You’re nothing if not consistent, Deputy, I’ll give you that.”

“You said you had questions.” Cora bit, a warning tone in her voice that drew John’s attention for just a second. 

“Now I have more.” He replied simply, ducking his head back down. “Like - you never told me you were a scientist. What business does a joint Botanist and Zoologist have in law enforcement? What happened there?”

_**“Stop-"** _

“Or...that you worked at Yellowstone. What made you move? That sounds like a ranger’s dream. What changed?”

Cora’s breath hitched in her throat, heart skipping a beat. No, no, not the next stage-

“Don’t fucking read that!” She barked.

John didn’t listen. He just turned the next page, leaving her to her panic. A moment passed, and his eyebrows rose. A breath of laughter escaped him, and he glanced up at her once more.

She knew exactly what he’d found. Part of her wanted to sink into the floor, away from his scrutiny. Another part wanted to attack him. Yell over the top of his voice, loud enough to drown him out. Yet, all she could do was shrink in her binds, angling her hard gaze at the floor.

The Baptist stood from his seat and began to pace. “ _Dear Cora Stammos,_ ” He recited, “ _I’m writing to confirm the outcome of your **disciplinary hearing.** Having considered the investigation report, no previous track record,_ yada yada, _the National Park Service will be issuing a formal warning alongside involuntarily worksite transfer, details of which to be discussed with your direct_ so-on-and-so-forth. _The Plaintiff has agreed not to pursue legal action, and the National Park Service recognises all charges dropped…”_

He stopped there, setting the pages he’d been relying so heavily on back down on the workbench. Cora could feel his satisfaction from across the room.

“Deputy.” John sang, “What did you do?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” She replied quietly, steadying a sudden quaver. 

“We had a deal.”

“No.”

“Confess, Deputy! **_What did you do?"_**

 _ **“Nothing compared to what I did to your sister.”**_ The growl spilled out of her, crackling and dangerous. Not quite brave enough to look the Baptist in the eye, but enough to revel in her own taunt.

There was a brief moment of silence between them, then; Cora, lip curled, outright refusing to engage further, and John stilling at her words, for once at a loss for his own. He shook out his wrist to check his watch. In her periphery, she spotted a jolt running through him. She could’ve sworn she heard the hiss of _**”fuck”**_ under his breath. His head whipped around, looking to the tools adorning the workbench, and then back to Cora again.

“If you insist.” John murmured, tugging a hand-held from his belt and holding it to his mouth. “Nancy. Please have someone bring Deputy Hudson downstairs.”

Hudson.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Cora’s gaze snapped back toward John, already observing her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he was quicker.

“You’re happy to brag about the atrocities you committed against someone I care about.” He began, voice hardened as he pulled away from the workbench and made his approach. This time, he didn’t keep out of her space, bending down to grip her shoulders, thumbs curling sharply into her collarbones when she tried to shake him off. “But how far does that lack of empathy extend?”

The sparking through her skin around his hands was petrifying. It was grotesque. It was nauseating. Too close. Too much. Too loud. Only when John released his hold on her did she find herself able to function again. 

Even then, all she was capable of was a weak, “Don’t.”

John had disappeared over her shoulder. The door screeched once more. Plastic wheels dragged across the flooring. 

When he came into view again, he pulled Hudson, bound to her own chair, drowsy as if she’d just awoken, to a stop in front of Cora. She still donned her uniform - caked in damp and filth after all this time. Old flecks of mascara dotted her face. Her typically olive skin was substantially dulled, sporting a black eye and bruising around her jaw. Thick, braided hair loose in flyaways and oil. 

The odour of old sweat and blood filled Cora’s nostrils, and stifled an anguished breath at the sight of the other woman.

Hudson stirred out of her state, and her gaze crept up to meet the blonde’s. A moment passed, and the woman began to shiver, distress creeping over her face.

“Oh god…” She panted, voice laboured and scratchy. “Rook, is that you?”

Cora couldn’t muster a reply, and John bent down over Hudson’s shoulder, placing his face beside hers, pointed grin fresh on his mouth as he locked onto the woman across from them.

“Let’s put those interpersonal skills of yours to the test, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John: I hate this chick! Damn!  
> Joseph: I'll make her someone else's problem.  
> John: ... Now wait just a minute-
> 
> Meanwhile, Cora's not as well-behaved as she's been letting on.
> 
> What a romantic reunion this is. Psychological torture, mystery and intrigue. My kinda date.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading! Things are picking up little by little and it's my goal to fill John's life with as much turmoil as possible. 
> 
> As always, you can find me at baeogorath.tumblr.com/


	11. Roland

After the Peggies had herded Cora off the property and filed out, things got awful slow at the Rye residence. No one really knew what to do with themselves. No one knew what to do, period. 

Nick had at least been nice enough to let them crash out back in the man cave while they figured things out. After he and Kim took off, they’d been welcomed to camp over in the house, but with Seed ranch being a couple minutes drive down the road and John having a massive hard-on for Nick’s property, staying too long probably wasn’t the smartest idea. 

It was shitty like that. Back in the day, almost the whole town would pile into the backyard and hang out. It was kind of like an open house; just folks eating and drinking and talking until the Ryes would call timeout and tell everybody to fuck off until next Saturday. Things eventually puttered out after it all went to shit with the Seeds, though. It was fine at first - even Nick and John seemed like good buddies at one point - but after a couple of years, the unfamiliar faces started pouring in, and what used to be a community bash turned into a weekly Eden’s Gate convention. 

Then bi-weekly. Then monthly. Then, nothing. Not even Peggies.

Sharky had heard rumours afterwards about why things stopped. Like, yeah, of course it was because there was a fucking cult knocking at the door every week, but why Eden’s Gate - the one group of people with no regard for invitation - stopped showing up to their place after the Ryes had called it quits? First off, for context: Kim got knocked up. That wasn’t a rumour - that turned out to be fact. She’d only ever hung around Nick since she moved to the County, and while she was _**definitely**_ punching below her weight by choosing some rando commercial pilot over, say, someone who could make nitroglycerine with his eyes closed, everybody knew that those two were crazy about each other - so when word got around that Kim had been fucking around on Nick? That the kid wasn’t his?

Nobody believed that shit. 

There were multiple versions of who’d spun the story in the first place, but the one that seemed most likely ended in Nick punching John in the face. Incidentally, it was also everyone’s favourite story. Partly because Nick had finally grown a pair of balls after a life of riding on his dad’s coattails, but mostly because folks got to live vicariously through the tale of their buddy breaking John fuckin’ Seed’s nose. 

Nick always denied it, but no one ever showed up uninvited to the Ryes’ place again. At least up until all the _**real**_ sinister shit started going down.

So, as cool as it was to be back in the man-cave after all this time, it felt kinda weird. 

The nostalgia was off.

Everything looked exactly the same - just as Sharky remembered it; fitted out with rugs, couches, a private bar, an old-ass jukebox, and the sexiest god damn pin-up of Rita Hayworth anyone would ever lay eyes on. Old photos, like, _**old**_ old photos, some as old as Fall’s End itself, were all over the walls. Lotta plane shit, too. Go figure.

The set-up had been handed down to Nick with the rest of the property from his daddy, who inherited it from _**his**_ daddy, so-on-and-so-forth. While Sharky would admit to harbouring a little jealousy toward the kid, getting everything handed to him and dropping outta school for it, he did have to give him props for at least preserving everything his ancestors had left behind for him. He didn’t have a legacy of his own, so he held onto theirs; the rugs - the couches - the jukebox - everything was almost exactly the same as it had been decades ago. 

Not that it mattered, now that the Ryes were jumping ship. All that effort put into keeping the place straightened out, and now they were abandoning it. 

...

Man, fuck thinking about the bigger picture. 

He wished Shorty were still here. She could analyse this kind of depressing shit without getting sad. Pull together a plan. 

The whole day had passed; night had come, and all Sharky was looking at on the notepad in front of him, read: **_' GET HER BACK.'_**

He groaned, sliding his elbows across the bar counter and sinking down until his face pressed against paper. He couldn’t think. Apart from Hurky trying to figure out how to piece together Nick’s old margarita machine, it was like, awkwardly quiet. You’d think that without the one person telling everyone to shut up all the time, things would’ve been a little more upbeat. Instead, all they’d been doing was napping and periodically sneaking to the bathroom to jerk off to Rita. That last part might’ve only been Sharky, come to think of it, but by the sun had set and round 3 rolled around, Sharky had stopped thinking so much about Rita’s tits and started thinking more about how shitty it was that his best friend wasn’t here to share the experience with him.

Not the whole jacking it in the bathroom part - but the camaraderie. There was no way their Deputy was 100% straight; not only did she make the executive decision to wear cargo pants every day, but she tucked her fucking shirt into her cargo pants every day. He was sure she’d be into that poster. Fuck, she deserved to at least behold it. Instead she was in a hole in the ground with John Seed, probably getting her limbs hacked off, and nobody was doing shit about it. 

After round 4, it occurred to him that if he wasn’t the one to step up and take action, no one was going to. They’d wasted the whole day on sweet fuck all without their leader to choose for them, and he knew that if she’d been here, she wouldn’t have tolerated it. As much as she claimed she hated the job, she’d be the one ranting about saving Fall’s End right now instead of stewing in silence. They needed that shit. It kicked their asses into gear back East, and if they were gonna have any hope of taking back the Valley, they needed to bring back the one person who pushed them to do shit. 

If he was gonna have to play temp, so be it.

Only...a couple hours in, he was realising filling those shoes was easier said than done.

_**'GET HER BACK.'** _

The words glared from the notepad. He could smell the ink he’d smeared on his face. 

“Gets kinda chilly out here at night.” Nick’s voice floated into the old hangar, and Sharky twisted in his seat to find the pilot setting a stack of blankets down on one of the couches. “Sorry if they smell a little dusty. Ain’t broken out the guest linens for a while.”

“How’s Kim doin’?” Adelaide asked from the couch, Xander snoozing on her shoulder.

Nick considered that, half-way wincing. “She’s - er - she’s fine. Shaken. A little mad. Wants to -” He inhaled sharply then, rearranging the words in his mouth, “Wants to be more useful, I guess. But Carmina’s all packed and ready to go. First sign of sunrise, and we’re boarding.”

Sharky felt a pang of irritation listening to the pair and swung himself back around, returning - or at least pretending to - return to his notes.

“Actually, he gave her a service.”

Adelaide grimaced at that. “Seriously?”

Hurk frowned, looking from Nick to his mother, and back. “What, that’s not a good thing?”

“It’s not _**not**_ a good thing, but it’s - y’know, it’s a _**thing.”** _Nick shrugged awkwardly. “She just feels kinda tainted.”

“Junior, imagine you’ve got a bombshell girlfriend. Been together for years. Loyal as anything. Then one day, you turn a corner and John Seed’s fingerbangin’ her.” Adelaide explained. 

Hurk’s frown only deepened.

“The plane got fingerbanged?”

“Look.” Nick’s tone sharpened as he tried not to grimace, scratching at his temple beneath his cap. “Y’all really did us a solid, getting Carmina back for us.”   
  
“Thanking the wrong people.” Sharky grunted, digging the ballpoint of his pen into the paper.

Nick ignored him.

“I was thinking...we can’t do much in the way of helping out down here, but if y’all wanted to maybe grab Tulip, you could follow us over the border.”

“Escape with you.” Jess growled, earning a hesitant nod.

“Shit’s really hittin’ the fan down here. I know there’s folks fighting back, but this Eden’s Gate business has gone beyond us. Kim’s family are great. I’m sure they’d be glad to have you until everything blows over-”

“No thanks.” Sharky interjected, annoyance finally boiling over, “We’re not just gonna abandon the Deputy. That’s a piece ‘o’ shit move.”

Nick’s gaze snapped toward the arsonist. His brow furrowed. Offended. “So, what? Sit and wait until them Peggies get bored and come back for seconds? Boshaw, you’ll die if you stay here.”

“Well I’d rather be dead in America than alive in cuckville Canada.”

“You think I wanna leave?” Nick demanded. “There’s no more choice. Jerome, Mary May - hell, your Deputy - everybody with a plan is gone.”

“Then we make one!” Sharky protested, wracking his brain for some desperate, genius epiphany. “We go get ‘em back. Simple as that. We just gotta think.”

“It’s not like we can just walk up to John’s bunker and ask to be let in.” Jess grumbled.

…

_ Holy shit. _

“Jess. That’s it.” Sharky breathed, marvelling at the woman as he stood from his seat. “That’s _**exactly**_ what we should do.”

“Sharky, that’s not-”

John’s crew weren’t picky about who they took in, but who’d be let out was a different story. Civilians stayed down there. Peggies, on the other hand, were a different story. They had free passage.

The idea continued to snowball in his head, picking up traction and stirring him into a pace around the hanger, following an unseen trail of thought. “Hear me out, okay - look outside. What do you see?”

The gang and Nick did as they were told, peering at the grassy clearing in the darkness outside. 

“Still just a bunch of dead Peggies that were bakin’ in the sun.” Adelaide answered.

“Peggies - Peggie _**threads.”**_ Sharky clarified, gesturing into the dark. “Give ‘em a wash, throw em on, and no one’ll be able to tell the difference. So we play dress-up. Sweet talk our way into John’s bunker. Bust Shorty right on outta there all heist movie style, and by the time we’re back-”

“-Hopefully the margarita machine’ll be adequately frozen for a knockout post-jail-break party.”

“Hurky’s on it.” Sharky beamed at his cousin before turning to the others. 

They didn’t look nearly as excited about the concept. Jess remained at the entrance, unmoved, glaring at the floor while Adelaide and Xander more or less did the same from the couch they’d been cuddling on. 

Nick looked downright upset.

“Might as well throw on some cuffs and bury the key while you’re at it.” He muttered.

Sharky turned his gaze on Nick then, hard and defensive. “At least I’m not runnin’ away to play ice hockey while everybody else gets blown up back home. Don't get me wrong, your wife's hot, but poutine ain't worth the move.”

_**“I’m protecting my family.”** _

Sharky couldn’t help but chuckle at that, shaking his head at the pilot. Already, Nick was fumbling just from being looked at too long. It only strengthened the next words to come out of his mouth. 

“Nah. You’re a coward.”

“Okay, this is already way less sexy than I’d hoped.” Adelaide declared, ever-acquainted with de-escalating the macho brawls that broke out between the men in her circle. She placed herself between Nick and Sharky, both of whom had begun to size the other up.

While Nick acquiesced to remaining behind Adelaide, his lip still curled. “John ain’t stupid, Sharky. He ain’t gonna let that Deputy go, either. You’d just be handing yourselves over to him for no good reason.”

“Helping someone in need isn’t good enough of a reason? Someone got themselves caught just so _**you**_ could have a chance of getting outta here, so don’t give me that shit.”

“She didn’t even wanna help!” Nick exclaimed.

“But she fuckin’ did it anyway!” Sharky barked back. “I’ll admit - she’s kind of a huge bitch a lot of the time. She would’ve been happier to turn you down, but she didn’t. It landed her in shit, but she still stuck her neck out for you, _**for no good reason.”**_

He ran a hand through his hair, pausing to sigh and gather his thoughts before he ended up ranting. 

“It’s not perfect, but even if she doesn’t wanna do it, she’s the only one with the balls to act, and she does it because _**we’re** _there to veto the fuck outta her when she says no. We’re like the compass or whatever. She needs us to point her in the right direction, but without her, we don’t do shit. So, yeah. I’m gonna go pull my friend outta that hellhole, and I’m gonna make sure she helps them people at Fall’s End.”

Sharky would’ve appreciated a little applause at the end there. Maybe a hopeful look or two. Hell, come to think of it, even complete silence would’ve done just fine. 

Instead? He got a silenced, withering look from Nick, and worst of all:

“You know what, Sharky?” Xander piped up, standing from the couch and taking Adelaide’s hand. “I think that’s really noble of you.”

Ugh. That little beta prick, showin’ up all supportive in front of Adelaide. Now she was gonna be on-board because of her fucking _**boyfriend,**_ and not because he’d just made the rallying speech of a lifetime. 

“I think we should give it a shot-”

“Xander, I really can’t hear what you’re saying over your wet ass toes squeaking around in those open-toe sandals, so how about you go ahead and calm down.” Sharky overrode, squinting at the guy until Adelaide shot him a scowl. He relented. “Bottom line is - the same shit that happened to Nick’s plane’s happening to Shorty right now, and we should be just as crazy about getting her back.”

Hurk’s arms crossed over his chest. “I’m in. Nobody fingerbangs us without our say so.”

“That analogy alone is enough for me to tag along.” Adelaide nodded.

Jess stirred in Sharky’s periphery, pushing away from the wall. “So we impersonate some Peggies, break the Dep out, and then what? Leg it?” 

_**“Obviously**_ we’ll have a getaway vehicle.” Sharky shrugged.

“What do you mean “obviously”? We dumped our last car across the river, and I’m sure if they see Nick’s truck comin’ up the driveway we’ll be blown up on sight. Where are we gonna find a car?”

Hurk raised his hand at that. 

“I can help there, amigos.” He volunteered. “Travelling on a budget, you tend to pick up a few tricks here and there. Keeping an open mind and observing cultural phenomena can come in real handy. Doing it as long as I have? I’d like to be modest, but I don’t think I got any choice but to call myself a master of the craft. Like - I’m just sayin’, I know how to get from point A to point B.”

“Well go on, Hurky. What do you suggest?”

“It’s called hitchhiking.”

* * *

  
  


Undamaged, Joseph had ordered. 

Undamaged.

Prepared for duty. Fit to be processed and put through Jacob’s trials immediately. She’d either die, as most recruits did; finding a final purpose in being churned into food for those mutant wolves, or she’d survive. She might thrive. If Jacob didn’t kill her outright - something Joseph seemed so adamantly against - she’d walk the path of the Chosen. Remodelled into one of their elite protectors. 

The whole thing was ridiculous. She wasn't a solder. She was a bureaucrat gone postal. A scientist with a bad temper. That was all. The trials would wring her out and string her up like old laundry.

When John thought about it - when he really considered it - he didn’t want the woman to die. Now that it seemed a real possibility, despite everything she’d done to them, that wasn’t the fate he wanted for her. Jacob had been way off in his accusations, but maybe there’d been some element of wisdom in Joseph’s words. Fixation, no, but prior fondness - lingering sentiment, perhaps. That Deputy had never ceased to be a pain in his rear, and yet, there was so much fucking potential to behold in her relentlessness. He expected her weekly arrivals. Her badgering. Her annoyance. He’d enjoyed stoking her anger; found humour in their arguments. He liked always giving her a reason to come back, and she always would, right on schedule, without fail. No sick days. No annual leave.

As a foe, she was a constant.

He wanted the same from her as an ally. 

He’d worked for it. He’d put in the time. He deserved it. He wanted her there, redeemed, in _**his**_ bunker. Not off in the mountains with his brother. Jacob would only see her as a number; there was no way the Soldier could comprehend the accomplishment of reforming Deputy Stammos. Of knowing her. Holding the loyalty of a creature who so despised company. _John could._ He'd be able to appreciate holding her admiration. She could plant trees and grow food and teach the next generation to sustain themselves in the new world, and one day she might actually smile at him for giving her a purpose that she loved. He could rid her of the violence in her soul, and she could help them build their Eden. She'd like that, John thought, more than standing at the gate and shooting down intruders.

And yet, this was the will of the Father.

John had the woman half way to Atonement and still his efforts would go unrewarded. All he had would be her Confession. It wasn’t the full package, but if that was the best they could do, then he couldn’t refuse. 

Fuck - undamaged, though? Honestly?

Coaxing out sin was as much as physical matter as it was psychological. Without proper encouragement, the process was long. Arduous. That wasn’t an option.

He had until sun-up to get through to Deputy Stammos. He had to find alternatives. He had to get creative, and in that respect, he thanked God for Deputy Hudson.

John had always known that he’d gotten an advantage in receiving the best of the bunch from the Sheriff’s Office. Yes, she had an edge that made her more personally difficult to extract a confession from, but her resistance had been a blessing in disguise; she was still a hostage. She was still just another sinner, an enemy of the Project, and John had no reservations about using her as leverage.

Neither woman was particularly sentimental, but after wheeling Joey Hudson into the chamber, dangling her across the room from what had once been her partner-in-training, John knew without a doubt he’d made the right move.  The air changed when both Deputies looked at each other; Hudson caught between relief and despair, and Stammos, indiscernible yet unblinking, focused completely on the other woman. Tunnel vision. Even with the Baptist’s presence, the gears were turning, all priority set toward one single object. 

Not even Deputy Stammos could deny her own conditioning.

Cops looked out for their own. It was drilled into their skulls until it became systemic - until serving one’s colleagues came before serving oneself or one’s community. On a movie screen, it was mostly portrayed as some profound bond between the bravest of society that humanised and excused abuses of power; in the real world, however, it was just a forged instinct to close ranks in the event of bad press. It was a breeding ground for unchecked sin. Unrepentant. Protected. 

Thinking about that made it a lot easier to carry this out. 

He’d fascinated himself with the act of tearing that hideous shirt Stammos had likely borrowed from one of her hillbilly friends, and contrary to all her earlier squirming, she hardly flinched. He assembled his tattoo kit, and while his gaze dragged over what sweat-damped skin he had access to above the unfortunately high cut of a sports bra - visualising what sin he might stamp there - anticipating how much longer he’d get to indulge in the sight without the scrutiny of her partner behind him, she didn’t even spare him a glance. 

Her eyes never shifted. They remained locked on Hudson. That trained instinct to protect their own, shining through, even if it wasn’t in the woman’s nature. He’d managed to find an advantage in it, but God, couldn’t she look at him for just a second? 

He went about his usual routine, pulling the two of them through a well-rehearsed, but not necessarily untrue speech. Walking them through his personal anecdotes in achieving enlightenment; how empty he’d been until Joseph had shown him the way. Baring just the tiniest piece of his soul with his captives in the hope that they might trade their own. That if _**he**_ could atone - if John had walked the same agonising path carved out for them - they might find the courage to follow. 

When he finished speaking, he looked to Hudson. She'd heard this speech before, but this time around, she’d begun to cry. Whether it was enlightenment or fear that made her tremble, the show of progress was undeniable. He was breaking her down, and her soul was responding; readying itself for rebirth.

Turning his head toward the little blonde to his left, however, wasn’t nearly so rewarding. 

She remained unchanged - static - still just staring at her partner. No tears. No empathy or sympathy nor any indication that she’d even been listening.

It was as if he wasn’t even in the fucking room. 

“Do you wish to confess?” He asked, pushing down the tightness that pulled in his chest, hazing out the emerging reminder that he had mere hours remaining on the clock. 

“Yes.” Hudson breathed to his right, barely audible. What would have been an enjoyable victory days ago, but was now overshadowed by more pressing priority. 

John elected to ignore her, keeping his gaze fixed on Stammos. No change. His jaw rolled.

“What happened to all that anger just a few minutes ago?” He asked, approaching the blonde, frustration mounting. It’d be so much easier if Joseph had just allowed him to hit her a few times. Coax out what he wanted to hear with tools rather than words. “No longer happy to play the monster now that your heroine’s here with us?”

A glance. A split-second of eye contact. A tiny, subconscious confirmation of the other woman’s importance. More fuel for him to use, but this was burning much too slow. He _**had**_ to speed things up. He _**had**_ to hear it.

“Do you wish to confess your sin?” He repeated.

“Leave her alone.” Hudson bit, louder. “I said I’ll confess.”

“Very noble of you to put your pride aside for the sake of another, Deputy Hudson - duty noted, but I’m afraid your timing’s off. This isn’t your confession to give, and we’re still waiting on someone.”

Hudson emitted something between a choke and a sob. “Fucking asshole - I said yes! Yes - just - leave her, _**please**_ just-”   
  
“Hudson, shut up.” Stammos snapped, and John couldn’t help the sharp laugh that escaped him.

“Hear how willing our dear Hudson is to be your defender? To be your stand-in?” He smiled, leaning right down in front of the woman, forcing her attention on him by giving her nothing else to look at. “Does she know what you did? Would she still be protecting you if she knew?”

Stammos finally looked at him, then - hesitantly, but not breaking her gaze, eyes full of contempt and indignance and so fucking **_green_** that John’s stomach coiled. 

His mouth dried up. Now they were getting somewhere.

“It feels better, not having to confront yourself. I get it. It’s easier, being the monster. Accepting your humanity is terrifying. Accepting weakness, sin, fault. But it’s just one syllable. One little college basement tattoo, and you can’t even fathom how fucking good it feels on the other side.” His voice had dropped to a murmur, and had it not been for Joseph and Jacob’s accusations ringing alarm bells in the back of his mind, he might have allowed himself to punctuate his words by sliding his fingers across her chest - finding some excusable, platonic means of drawing close and drinking in the faint scent of her while he still had the chance. “I’m right here with you, the whole way. I want you to feel this. I want you to want this. Just, please, say yes.”

Stammos’s lips parted, and she leaned toward him just slightly, bringing pine needles and cinnamon in her wake. John’s chest tightened again, anticipating, and he savoured this single second like an eternity. 

“Cunt.”

John chewed his lip, jaw rolling and exhaled through his nose.

God, she was so fucking evil.

_ Fine. Fuck you too. _

“Deputy Hudson, did you know that Deputy Stammos came close to a conviction?” He asked, renewing the casualty in his tone as he straightened out and turned his attention to the brunette across the room. 

He could feel Stammos stiffen over his shoulder. _Too little, too fucking late._

Hudson almost looked relieved that he’d parted from the blonde. New tears rolled down her cheeks as he approached - a trained response to being in his proximity after all the weeks she’d spent down here with him. “No, I did not.” 

“A felon, upholding the law.” John mused. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Stammos ground out, eyes on him. Perfect.

“I think there’s two things at play, here. A lack of empathy - we’ve been over that - and a lack of transparency.” He went on, sauntering to a stop beside Hudson and spinning on his heel to shoot a grin at Stammos. “Deputy Hudson’s already said yes. She’s already thrown herself on the line for your sake. Can you do the same for her?”

Silence. 

“Do you wish to confess?”

Nothing. 

John lunged, delivering a swift, hard punch across Hudson’s jaw. She grunted at the impact, bowing her head to recover while John shook the blooming ache out of his knuckles.

“Are you happy for her to suffer, just because you’re too much of a coward to confront yourself?” He panted, checking across the room for his audience’s reaction. Stammos winced, and he nearly jumped for joy. Progress.

He drew back and hit Hudson a second time. A scab on her lip split over the back of his hand, and when she yelped, she spat blood.

“Stop it!” Stammos snarled, tone quavering in some delicious way that only spurred John on. He panted, tearing away from Hudson and storming to his workbench to retrieve that same screwdriver.

“You hold the power to stop this, Deputy! Now - “ John returned to Hudson, heart racing, grinning madly. One hand yanked at her braid, tilting her head back and exposing her throat while he curled down over her shoulder. He aimed the screwdriver up into the pulse point in her neck and pressed. “Do you wish to confess?!”

“Fine!” The cry that tore from the woman drew his gaze up instantly, and for a moment, he was sure his heart had stopped. “Yes. Okay.”

_**“YES! That’s my girl!”**_ John shrieked, shaking the Deputy in his grasp in lieu of punching the air. Every nerve in him sparked at the sight of her, defeated. His body near tearing at the seams with pride and awe and celebration. “What were your charges?!”

Stammos twisted her head, and had Joseph not tied her hair back earlier, she’d likely have succeeded in hiding her face. Her shoulders drooped and she sagged forward in her binds.

“...Assault.” The word came out as a squeak, as if she'd never uttered it before.

He wanted to run to her. He wanted to lift her into his arms. Spin her around and litter her face with kisses in expression of just how much gratitude her admission pulled from him - but he couldn’t. It wasn’t a practice he held with any of his other followers, and with Hudson between them, he was still required to behave like a functioning human. The sooner he got rid of her, the better, and so he gripped the back of the woman’s chair, deaf to the laboured curses and threats she uttered under her breath.   
  
He wheeled her across the room, halting just short of Stammos.

“You have no idea how much of a leap you’ve taken, and I can only hope that God admires the two of you just as much as I do right now.” John offered, gentle as he could muster amidst every atom within him going haywire.

The two Deputies had fallen silent at some point during that sentence. For a moment, it felt calm. Clarified. 

He’d lifted a burden from both of them. The relief must have been overwhelming. 

When John finally tore his gaze away from the side of Stammos’s face, however, he witnessed something much more offensive.

Hudson and Stammos, both bound just about to the knuckle, had each managed to stretch across the inch of dead space between them. Their pinky fingers locked around one another - banded together - comforting each other. That fucking cop instinct he’d worked so hard to prey upon, undermining the attention that should’ve been on _**him.**_

John didn’t think. His vision flashed red. He’d barely registered his own movements until it was too late. Livid instinct and all that built-up adrenaline took over, and it wasn’t until the tip of the screwdriver in his grasp made contact with Stammos’s hand that rational thought returned and _Pull up. Stop. Joseph said-_

But there was no defying physics. The screwdriver sunk into the woman’s hand, and a sharp cry clawed its way out of her. She was quick to stifle it, just as John was quick to relinquish his hold on the tool, equally as shocked. Hudson’s string of threats returned, snarling, bleeding into the heartbeat thumping through his ears, and all instances of that momentary clarity evaporated, right then and there. 

John straightened, composing himself. He had little choice but to. Pushing on, he dragged Hudson past, refusing to look at the blonde in the event that panic might set in and manifest.

Undamaged, Joseph had ordered. 

Fuck.

All that work, bringing in Hudson. All that substitution, and he'd broken it at the last minute. 

He expected himself to start hyperventilating. For dread to fill him to the brim at disobeying the Father. What seeped in instead, felt a lot more like vengeance.

On one hand, he’d been disallowed to exact judgement.

On the other hand…

He yanked the door open, and paused.

“That was for my plane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting! I hoped you enjoyed yet another instalment of John Seed Loses His Fucking Mind.
> 
> Originally, I wanted to deliver some peace and quiet after this one for y'all, but it got way too long, so please PLEASE bear with me for another round of this craziness, and then we'll have some downtime, I swear it. 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading Pomegranate! Your support and engagement with this work really does nothing short of amaze me, and I appreciate y'all being such wonderful readers. 
> 
> Find me at baeogorath.tumblr.com/ if you wanna yell at me over this chapter or keep up with other treats related to Pomegranate.


	12. Oliver

Cora drew in a breath and held it, keeping movement at bay until she'd made enough sense of her bearings.

Half a minute passed before the silence around her became convincing enough; John was gone. Hudson with him. She was alone - unwatched.

Her exhale came hard and hollow, breathing through the throbbing of the foreign body stuck in her palm. 

_Jesus motherfucking Christ that hurt._

Another moment came and went, and Cora mustered the gall to inspect the damage the Baptist had dealt. When she glanced tentatively down to the right, there was no helping the hiss that accompanied her grimace. The shank of the screwdriver stood, fixed between the bones in her middle and ring fingers, buried half-way to the handle. The blade, meanwhile, jutted out through the underside of the plastic arm-rest. As if the rope hadn’t already served their purpose, John had fucking nailed her hand to the chair. Grooves and burrs along the shank dragged on opened flesh with the slightest movement, renewing their sting, discouraging her from shifting at all. 

Just observing the damage seemed to worsen the feeling. 

Bad as it felt, however, the view hadn’t come without a silver lining. 

On the underside of the arm-rest, one loop of the cord tying down Cora’s wrist had frayed. Caught on the metal. The screwdriver had filed just a few threads away - not enough to break out of, but enough to mark the beginnings of potential. If she kept scratching at it, she might be able to finish the job that lunatic had started. She might be able to get free before he returned. Get to that fuck-off wall of tools and make him pay back the damage he’d done to Hudson. 

_Hudson._

_**Hudson.** _

Shit, she had to get out and find her. Break her out and drag her home, as per the Sheriff’s orders. 

Cora wouldn’t lie; seeing her most centred colleague in that condition was affecting. In what way, she wasn’t sure, but it set off something urgent in her. Every little observable injury visible on her skin - every bloodied and torn patch on her uniform - each piled-on sign that Hudson was in absolutely zero shape to fight brought with it the reality that Cora couldn’t simply rely on the other woman to keep herself alive if either of them broke free of John. She’d have to keep her out of harm’s way. She’d have to take into account how much slower they’d move with all those injuries and potentially only one good hand between them. 

She had to protect her, but before that could happen, she needed to find her. She had to get the fuck out of here. Find Sharky and the team. 

Cora focused on the back of her hand. On the grating metal surface of the shank. 

If she moved - shifting the rope against that same surface - she’d be doing the same thing to herself. Grinding flesh, but fraying cord. It already stung, just remaining still.

It couldn’t be helped. This was the way out. She had to take it. 

_Break out. Find Hudson. Escape. Regroup._

Fuck. Screw it. 

The Deputy tugged upward against the resistance of the rope, and pain shot all the way from her hand to her shoulder. A sob instantly tore at her throat, stirring behind gritted teeth. She pushed back down, repeating the sensation, blinking through forming tears and keeping her focus on just that one little piece of rope. It became easier after the first few repetitions. The throbbing in her arm was almost numbing. _Up, down, up down_ , Cora continued, wearing down thread after thread, fast as her body could handle without seizing.

Blood pooled around the entry wound, and as the minutes wore on, her entire hand coated itself in crimson.

_The rope. Concentrate on the rope._

Half-way...three quarters…

Almost...there.

“Finally!” John’s chiming accompanied the screech of the door swinging open over Cora’s shoulder, and she nearly howled. “A little privacy.”

She let her hand drop back onto the arm rest, glimpsing those last few threads on the underside of the plastic one more time before the Baptist sauntered into her periphery, commanding her attention. 

John rounded on her, too-wide smile plastered back on his face and palms sliding to his knees. Even in a torture scenario - even when she was tied to a chair, he still mocked her height. Then, his gaze flickered to her right hand, still pinned to the chair, soaked in red.

The smile dropped.

“For God’s sake, Deputy - you know you could’ve just waited for me to take it out.” He snapped, twisting away to rifle through the draws of his workbench. After withdrawing a rag and a little plastic case, John returned to Cora, depositing both items on the tray beside her. Leaning over her legs, John inspected the wound. “I applaud your independence, don’t get me wrong, but you’re going to give yourself fucking nerve damage.”

Cora frowned at him for a moment, watching his eyes rake over the back of her hand. 

He hadn’t noticed the rope yet. 

Okay. She could work with that. 

“On three. Deep breath.”

_Wait, what?_

One of John’s hands pressed down on her knuckles, and had Cora not been so outraged by the action, she would’ve cried out at the pain it brought. When John’s other hand wrapped around the screwdriver handle, the Deputy’s eyes shot wide.

“Hold on a-”

“Onetwothree-”

John wrenched upward, pulling the foreign body from Cora, and she instantly doubled over, nearly cracking teeth from the sheer force it took to keep her scream at bay. Her head brushed the man’s arm, too preoccupied with swimming through the crest of dizziness that followed to care for his touch.

“Fuck.” She choked. More pressure clamped down on the wound once John had tossed the screwdriver aside, covering the free flow of blood that followed its exit.

“Good girl.” The Baptist cooed, leaning into her a little. Immediately, Cora’s posture righted itself, shifting to avoid him. His followed, but he refused to acknowledge the glare she sent his way.

“Stop saying that. I’m not a dog.”

“No pleasing you, is there?” 

“Not necessarily.”

A huff escaped John, as if he was anticipating the hostility of Cora's next words. “Before you say it, I’ll remind you that I’m keeping you from bleeding out right now.”

They exchanged a hard look, and Cora relented, closing her mouth. Silence encroached after that, marking what felt like an eternity of waiting for the bleeding to stop. The two of them waited, shoulder-to-opposite-shoulder; Cora awkwardly examining the rear wall of the room while John examined the top of her head. Typically, she’d be more comfortable with the quiet, but at this proximity, something felt off. Maybe it was how little sound her captor was making in comparison to his earlier hysteria. Maybe it was the cue she’d learned from Sharky to bump shoulders in order to signal conversation. Either way -

“You smell,” She mumbled, “And you’re sweaty.”

“How I missed your charm.” John deadpanned. “Remind me - when was the last time you showered? I had one this morning.”

“Was that before or after your run?” Cora shot back, pausing to wince when John pressed down hard in retaliation. 

“Here I was,” He tugged the wooden stool closer with his foot and took a seat, perusing the little kit on the tray while he did so, “Hoping you might be more friendly once you got talking.”

“Thought I was doing pretty well for someone who’d just been impaled.” The Deputy watched John’s hand lift from hers. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, and the Baptist gave a satisfied nod, proceeding through the motions of disinfecting and numbing.

Once he’d readied a needle and thread, he got to work, starting with Cora’s palm. He felt less dangerous once you were under his thumb, she noted, keeping a frown trained on him. Accommodating, even. That in mind, it made more sense to her as to why his followers seemed to adore him so much, despite each of them having been in this room.

“So,” One corner of John’s mouth tugged, and he flashed her an indulgent little smirk. Victorious. “This ‘assault’.”

The pit reforming in Cora’s stomach at the mention caught her off-guard. She hadn’t quite noticed it disappearing in the first place. No matter - she wanted to avoid the topic altogether. To stall, at the very least, before John caught on to the fact that her confession had been a lie.

It had gotten him off Hudson’s back in the moment, but now he was closing in on her.

“I’d rather work up to it.”

John’s head was dipped, but the grin on his face was obvious. “Who am I to turn down the rarity of Deputy Stammos deciding to be chatty?” Three stitches in, and he was already tying off. _Christ, he must have done this a lot._ Rotating her hand, John considered his next words. “From a double degree, to land management, to parking tickets. That's quite the fall from grace. Did you have different career plans once upon a time?”

“No. I always wanted to be a ranger." Cora replied.

"You could've gotten the job with an Arts degree."

"I know." She shrugged. "But being educated - smart - is important.” 

“I can see how someone who changed their name to a different spelling of the same name might value intelligence.” The Baptist quipped, indulging in her scowl before starting on the back of her hand. “You liked studying?”

She nodded. “You didn’t?”

“Couldn’t stand it. 4 years of networking with elitist yuppies, all of us up to our eyeballs in Adderall and speed and sabotage tactics. Speaking of which: was college where you found amphetamines?”

“I was _**prescribed medication**_ in college.” 

“Well, your prescription dosage is borderline recreational.”

“I’ll be sure to let my psychiatrist know what a cult leader thinks of their medical opinion.”

“I’m only asking questions.” The Baptist defended.

“Ask better questions.” Cora bit.

John paused, one stitch in. “Is that why there’s no family in your picture? Did they not take it seriously?”

No, they didn’t. 

“Do they need a reason not to be there?”

“Pardon me. For a moment there I mistook you for a person.” 

Cora squinted at that, following a pang of irritation. “Aren’t you supposed to weigh my soul _**after**_ the Confession?"

“If you don’t start answering my questions properly, Deputy, I’m afraid we might have to refer to Hudson again.”

Another stretch of silence.

She wasn’t going to win this one.

"The Stamos family are proud and close-knit. The current generation lives within a 3 mile boundary, most of them next-door neighbours.” The Deputy explained. “Very sociable. Very loving. Very nosy.”

John’s head tilted. “Your worst nightmare.”

“Naturally, we had some philosophical differences. Like you, they disagreed with my psychiatrist, and I disagreed with their lifestyle, so I excused myself.”

“Just like that? How old were you?”

“About 15.”

“What did they do to you?”

“What? Nothing. They were fine.”

John blinked, jaw rolling as he tugged the final stitch closed. “And you threw them away. You know how many multitudes of people would be content with 'fine'? Is there really no love in you beyond antagonism?”

Something felt vaguely offensive about that. It wasn’t the first time she’d had that accusation levelled at her, and she hadn’t taken kindly to it then, either. All the same, she found herself without rebuttal.

“I dunno.”

There was no passive-aggressive quip for that one. He simply tied off and checked over his work, leaving the Deputy to mull over the question some more.

“Done.” John announced, snipping the thread and dropping the needle onto the tray. He rummaged through the little box, unwrapping plastic. “And to top it off, you get your very own Project band-aids.”

Cora inspected the little fabric strips once he’d pressed them to either side of her hand, furrowing her brow at the patterned white logos against black material. 

“Patent pending.” The man muttered, turning his attention away to tidy up after himself.

“Cute.” She replied drily.

“Just wait, it gets cuter.” Once the Baptist had finished wiping the blood off his hands, he held his right out beside hers. Eden’s Gate band-aids, stuck over Boomers bite. “Not only are we even - we match.”

Two thoughts entered her mind, then: One - she had a good dog, and two - John Seed was a fucking drama queen.  
  
It was almost offensive, knowing she was at the mercy of an absolute fool.

The Deputy couldn’t restrain the roll of her eyes at the man’s crooked little smile; less performative this time around and more cheeky. She wasn’t equipped to handle the hot and cold act he was pulling. She wanted to stay angry. Keep her adrenaline pumping and stay on track. The goal posts were shifting, though, and through the heat of the room and the ache in her arm and the tonal whiplash of her interrogator, it was already a task just to keep up.

“Holland Valley.” She volunteered.

“What about it?”

“That’s one thing I love, I think.”

“Please. You didn’t have a choice but to come here.”

“No, but I don’t regret it happening.” Cora mused, pursing her lips in thought. “There’s this one view, coming in from Missoula on the North road between the Whitetails and the Henbane. You can see the whole basin - where the rivers join the lakes and the mountains trap the clouds and -”

“I know the road. Very pretty.” John nodded, and that one little flicker of common ground was enough to force the Deputy to shift her gaze to the wall, swallowing.

“Every day, it’s the exact same view. Everything’s so...undisturbed. Unknown, like you could disappear here. Yellowstone was beautiful, but it was crowded. Always some asshole leaving trash everywhere. Here, it’s almost like a sanctuary. Too far out and too quiet for big companies or tourists or developments.” Cora explained. “I think that’s part of the promise of carving out a space here."

She could feel his scrutiny at her words, but telling them wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as their previous conversation. Less an anecdote and more an observation - or at least, that was how she justified it. It was also a hell of a lot easier saying it to a wall of cement rather than searching eyes.

“That’s what we had in-mind when we made the trip.” John mentioned. “My brothers and I.”

“And then you told all your friends about it.”

“I admit, I’ll always miss the quietness of the early days a little.”

“How long ago was that?”

“7 years. I keep count.” John confirmed, flashing tattooed tally marks on the side of his hand. “Might’ve been about 2, maybe 3 dozen of us. Of course, you’d know all this already if you’d just read Joseph’s book.”

Cora came close to snorting at that, and was quick to straighten her expression. “That’s annoying. If I’d have come to Montana instead of Wyoming after graduating, I might’ve seen what this place was like before you took over.”

John smirked. “Thinking you might’ve been more inclined to join us back then?”

“More wondering if it would've easier to get you to take me seriously.”

“I’m sure you might’ve gotten braver with the parking situation a lot earlier.” He chuckled, casting her a wolfish look, and she averted her gaze to keep from mirroring it.

“You liked that, huh.”

“Liked it better than the slashed tyres."

“Yeah, well.”

His eyes lingered on her, expression unreadable in her periphery. “Your shoulders are broader, you know.”

Cora grunted. “Is my workout routine supposed to be part of my Confession?”

John seemed to get the memo then, flashing through acknowledgement and irritation and then right back into his usual performative smugness.

“So, no family in the picture.” He noted.

“Nope.”

“No friends to speak of.”

“No thanks.”

John propped an elbow atop his thigh and balanced his chin in the palm of his hand, settling into a more comfortable position.

“Romantic history?”

Cora blinked, gaze finally snapping back to him. “None of your business.”

“So for the sake of criteria, it’s safe to paraphrase to ‘none’?”

“Sure.”

“Thought so.”

A deliberate jab. Bait. Two could play at that game.

“Hurk told me Eden’s Gate doesn’t allow fornication.” She mentioned, earning a nod.

“That’s right.”

“Glass houses.”  
  
John’s smile widened, lopsided and amused. “I’ll remind you that this is your Confession, Deputy. This isn’t judgement, it’s investigation - but, for the sake of defending myself, I’m proud of my celibacy. It’s a show of my faith and my loyalty to the Project. Not some instinctual, prudish avoidance.” Then he paused, flashing teeth. _**“I**_ abstain out of choice.”

...

_Prick._

“So you think I’m a prude.” Cora reasoned, failing to keep the sharpness from her tone. 

A pause bloomed between them. Something glinted in John’s eyes, and he leaned in, just by an inch, mouth falling open.

Shit. That had been more bait. 

“I think I used the wrong phrasing.” He admitted. “I wouldn’t put it past you not to have had any romantic ties. Knowing you, that’s probably true. Lone wolf or no, though, you’re still a sinner; you’re still human - and most importantly, you’re getting defensive - so I won’t be so vague.”

Cora’s chest tightened as John inched closer still - enough that she could detect that familiar scent; smoke - metal - spiced cologne, all diluted with the smell of the sweat that dampened his shirt and beaded his forehead and collarbones. 

The air grew thick. Humid. 

She swallowed, and John’s gaze flickered to the movement in her throat before snapping back up to lock with hers again.

“Deputy, do you fornicate?” He asked with a smile all too pure for the nature of this discussion. Just about hidden beneath his beard, his Adam's apple bobbed. A gulp of his own, stifled, shrouded behind all that confidence. “Do you fuck?”

Cora deadpanned, “I’m sexually active, yes.”

“How many?” John pressed, almost cutting her off with his urgency. “How many people have you been with?”

 _ **“That’s**_ definitely beside the point-”  
  
“I’ve heard you and Boshaw are close. Is he one of them?”

“Jesus -...” Cora grimaced, and then John sat up straight again, backing out of her space, seemingly content with the response.

One leg crossed over another. His eyes stayed on her. “How long’s it been?”

“Ugh, since _**what?”**_

“Since whatever.” He shrugged. “Since you were with someone, sexually. A lover over in Missoula, maybe.”

She knew how he’d react. No matter the answer, he was setting her up for mockery. 

So she challenged him over it. “You first.”

The Baptist hardly flinched. He simply raised his hand once more, pointing to that etched tally. 7.

“I keep count.” He repeated.

“That’s...a long time.”

“8, disregarding a relapse 12 months in, but that was when we were still in Georgia. Your turn.”

Cora made one more noise of complaint, but he’d followed the terms she’d set. She had no choice but to do the same.

“3 years.”

John’s head tilted. “And you’d call that sexually active.”

“Yes, okay. Thank you.” Cora seethed. 

“I’d go for dormant, or extinct.”

“Well, for your information, it takes over 10,000 years for volcanic activity to be branded extinct, so not only are you not funny - you also look stupid.” 

“Thank you for your input, hotdog shirt. So that was before you transferred, or after?”

_**Prick.** _

She considered a lie for a moment. “After. Just turned 25. You’re, what, 40?”

The Baptist’s eyes narrowed at that, just a little. Offended. It was enjoyable to behold. 

“32.” He huffed.

“Same age, then.” Cora observed, “When you last-...y’know.”

A quiet moment passed by - John still processing the information she’d given, probably gearing up another round of questions - and Cora mulling over curiosity in her mind. _7 years._ No wonder he didn’t have a concept of personal space. 

There was no harm in asking. What was he gonna do? Stab her again?

“So after the Collapse...after everyone’s left your bunkers, is there still gonna be an Eden’s Gate?” She began, watching his gaze shoot elsewhere, gears already turning. “You still plan on being so devout after God’s washed his hands of the place? Abstinence, even after the apocalypse?”

“It depends.” John exhaled through his nose, amused. “Is my answer supposed to have some effect on your decision to join us, Deputy? I already promised a tennis court. Much more might border on nepotism.”

“It depends.” Cora mirrored, mocking that manufactured thoughtfulness in the man’s tone. “Would you not be so proud of that celibacy anymore if I did?”

John stilled, then, air halting in his lungs. He said nothing, eyes darting to her sternum, where he’d torn Sharky’s shirt earlier, and then back up to her face. His face tightened, and that false smile completely abandoned him. 

Ah. No. No, no, no.

**_Shit._ **

She’d been too direct. Too caught up in competition - in emerging the victor of their conversation to even register how absolutely _too far_ that question had been.

The game was over, and his silence answered a question she both should never have asked, and refused to reflect on. Yes - no - it didn't matter. All of it was uncomfortable.

She had to escape. If not for survival, then at least just to get away from how mortifying she'd just made this.

“I don’t plan on going back to the surface.” John admitted, quietly, jumping ship to the next available topic, and relief flooded Cora's body. “The world beyond this place - this bunker? There’s nothing I want from it. It’s dangerous. Good people are few and far between. The Collapse will purge everything - _**everything**_ \- _**that**_ I know. But when the Earth becomes fertile and Eden awaits us back up there? I'm not so sure. I don’t think even God could untaint that place for me. I’d rather be here, with the people I know I can trust, in this place that I built - that, as you say - carved out for myself.”

He avoided her gaze while he spoke, frowning through his words and staring into dead space. 

Cora was borderline ready to just start talking over him to drown the guy out.

 _No. Do not do this to us._ Rationality howled while her subconscious worked full-throttle, matching up this weird, awful, gross vulnerability he was showing to that quiet man tinkering away on machines in his hangar. _Do not gain a 3rd dimension. Stay terrible. Start talking about sex again. Stab me again. Do not make me sympathise with you._

Then, his eyes found hers, and had he been close enough, she would've kicked him.

“I get why you fight my family - and me - and why you mow down anyone who gets between you and taking control of this County. You said it yourself. Holland Valley is your sanctuary. I've been plagued by you long enough to know you’ll do anything to protect it. This place, down here, is mine. I’m just trying to extend that to a few other souls. I think that you of all people would understand _**why**_ I’m doing what I’m doing. It’s the same drive as yours.” 

Jesus Christ, he was getting closer again.

“I’ve always seen that in you, you know. That drive - that fucking _**tenacity**_ that makes you, quite frankly, dreadful to be around, and yet admirable. I just wish you could see that you’re using it for the wrong reason.”

Silence chased those last words on John’s part. Even Cora’s haywire thoughts quietened.

She squinted at him, and he raised one eyebrow expectantly.

“Oh, blow it out your ass.” Cora whined, and the laugh that shook through John then was more genuine than anything she’d ever seen from him. The way his crows feet wrinkled - how he ducked his head down just slightly - grin much more crooked when he wasn’t thinking about it. 

_**“So close.”**_ He lamented, still giggling. “Deputy, I could’ve sworn you were almost convinced.”

“No fucking way.”

The mood sobered once more. These stretches of quiet were getting too comfortable. Distracting. 

_Focus. Make yourself mad. Stop wasting time._

“You’re not letting me out of here, are you.” She concluded. 

John wasn’t smiling anymore, but his expression didn’t harden. “No. There’s more constructive things for you to be doing than wreaking havoc on the Reaping. I’m not sure what, but Joseph has bigger plans.”

Yep, okay. That just about did it. 

Cora gave a tiny experimental tug at the binds around her patched hand. Resistance all over, but a shaking tension against the pull was as good of a sign as anything. She could yank herself free. She just had to immobilize John long enough to untie her other hand, else she’d be back to square one. 

She never thought she’d consider the Seeds’ disregard for personal space an advantage.

He was close, but she needed him closer. Within arm’s reach.

One more confession. That ought to do it. 

“About my charges-” She began.

“I’m listening.” The excitement in his tone was unmistakable, eclipsing his earlier trail. 

“I wasn’t being entirely truthful.”

The stool under John squeaked, and he rose to a stand. He bent at the waist, and when his fingers found their way to her shoulders - when she could feel the heat of his breath on her face, she knew it was time.

Cora stretched her foot out, hovering behind his heel.

_Now._

“It’s okay.” John murmured. 

“It wasn’t assault.”

His blue eyes shifted downward, just slightly, and once again, the air grew thick. 

_Okay, **now.** _

Movement pulled her attention to his mouth, formulating his next words. He paused to wet his lips - one little flick of his tongue, and suddenly Cora was very aware of the heat blooming over her chest. Without thinking, she mirrored his action, and John’s breath caught in his throat.

“Tell me.” He whispered.

One hard yank, and the final threads of the rope snapped. All those aching nerves in Cora’s hand reignited as she slipped free of the bind, crying out in refreshed agony. Fingers found their way to the back of John’s head, and when she grasped him by the roots, his eyelids fluttered. Then, they shot open, widening.

His captive wasn’t supposed to have use of her hands, and for just a second, she held him there, savouring his shock.

“It was actually battery.” Cora growled. Then, she wrenched him forward and headbutted him in the teeth.

John reeled back at the impact, stuttering through a hard, _**“Fuck!”**_ , and just as he stepped backward, Cora yanked his heel out from under him. She followed his momentum, still gripping his hair, just enough for his fall to pull her to her feet. Stopping right about here would’ve been just about a perfect result, however, neglecting to take blood loss, dehydration, lack of sleep, and yesterdays baseball bat to the ribs into account? Her balance wasn’t quite as reliable as she remembered. 

They both dropped like sacks of shit; John’s back hitting the floor, and Cora summoning some last thread of survival instinct to pull the chair she’d been bound to between them. Plastic flattened into the Baptist’s chest, and Cora’s fall against it drove the object in further, punching the wind out of John completely. There wasn’t any time to waste. Cora snatched at the knots keeping her left hand bound, fumbling through untying without the usual dexterity of her fingers. 

John snarled, writhing beneath her, grappling at sleeves and forearms in an attempt to pull her to the ground and get her beneath him. He did away with her cover quickly, shoving the chair from between them, and the moment Cora pulled herself free, his fingers caught her wounded hand and locked around her wrist. He went for the other, but she beat him to it, plunging his right hand to the floor with a grunt. 

“Clever, Deputy. Every time I leave you alone, you manage to fuck me over.” He grinned savagely, punctuating his curse with a spatter of blood across his chin. His lip was busted open. His eyes blazed. 

Cora gritted her teeth, pushing as much weight as she could forward, trying to keep John still. His torso twisted between her knees, trying to buck her off of him, and even when she sat on his hips, he continued to squirm. He was losing mobility and it was only making him angrier.

Something halfway between a growl and a laugh shot out of the man. “Is your whole fucking existence engineered solely to drag me to hell?!” The laughter kept rippling through him while Cora wrestled his arm, pinning it beneath her knee. 

She panted against him, dizzy from the heat and the pain radiating through her body. “At this rate - I’ll admit - it’s becoming a hobby.”

And then he stopped struggling so much. His movements slowed. The struggle she’d been scrambling to still just...evaporated. No more reciprocal strain against her muscles. No more wriggling. It wasn’t right. They’d been fighting. She’d been pulling every ounce of strength she could summon into keeping John beneath her - to hold him back from gaining any momentum and keep him still for just _long enough_ that she’d be able to think the next step of this half-cocked plan through. At the very least keep him from getting on top of her.

So why wasn’t there tension against the grip she had on his wrist, or flexing tendons under her knee, or any twist of his torso to throw her off? 

Cora slowed, maintaining her hold on the Baptist. Her gaze darted to his face, unnerved and questioning. 

His expression migrated, familiar in the way his brow unknitted and the creases in his snarl ironed out as he looked up at her. 

“I hate you.” John ground out, desperately, like he was doing all he could to convince her of it.

Cora swallowed back a pant, feeling herself fall into stillness, watching him. She wasn’t convinced, no, but she wanted to be. It’d make this whole thing a lot easier if there wasn’t some tiny voice of hesitation halting her, claiming she’d once enjoyed this man. Mostly making his life a living hell, but enjoyed him all the same. 

“Yeah.” She affirmed, nodding. “For what it’s worth, I always wanted to headbutt you.”

Silence followed, broken only by both their stifled, laboured breaths.

The Deputy didn't feel his hand leave her wrist. Only the ghost-light stroke of his thumb over her bottom lip had her registering the movement; how close his hand had gotten to her throat.

She snapped back to present, and when she lurched, John's lip curled once more, reset. His grip found her arm before she could hit him, constricting, pulling her toward the floor. His body coiled beneath her with renewed fervour, desperately trying to throw her off. She had to hit him. Stun him. Kill him. She should’ve taken that split-second of inaction to fucking _move_ and get out of here.

Where was that fucking screwdriver when she needed it now? A hurried glance around, and she found only a plastic wheel that had come loose from the chair. A metal pin, no thicker than a toothbrush stuck out of it, blunt and rounded. 

It was no blade, but she could work with it. 

Her weight transferred to her knee, keeping John locked in place while she scrambled for the object, and when he found what she was reaching for, his free hand left hers to reach for it as well. The one chance either of them had to get the upper hand, and both moved frantically for it. Cora made it first, fingers rolling it into her palm, and John, sensing defeat, immediately returned to restraining her. He grabbed at her, clawing at her face and clutching at her hair. When he found purchase and yanked hard at her roots, she shrieked. 

She could’ve aimed for his face. Given him a black eye. Paid him back for what he’d done to Hudson. One quick hit and he’d be down for a couple of seconds. But the stark white of the band-aids lining the knuckles of his restrained hand called to her. 

_Even_ , he’d said. A simple dog bite for a stab wound that had made her cry. She hadn’t done that in fucking years.

_**Even.** _

No, she didn’t think she agreed.

What she could see from the back of his hand, even the tattoo on his skin seemed to side with her - diamonds pointing like arrows to the centre like a pre-marked bullseye for her to aim for, and she did. She lined up her shot and brought the improvised weapon down on his hand. John’s grip in her hair stuttered. A pained snarl shot out of him, and she hit him again, over and over, drawing blood from blunt force, refusing to budge as his struggles became more desperate.

He wasn’t giving up. Fuck.

Turning the wheel in her palm, Cora aimed the metal pin downward, and struck between the bones in John’s hand. The surface of a band-aid broke, and the snap of something hard and tight vibrated through the metal. Her chest seized, and in the same moment, John barked a broken, animalistic sound. His free hand left her completely, instantly shooting to nurse his newest injury and finding Cora’s knee in his way. He pawed weakly, face contorted in pain, almost like he was trying to tap out.

It was as good as a surrender. He was out of commission, at least momentarily, but Cora wasn’t done. They weren’t even. Not by her standards.

Throwing all of her weight forward, the Deputy pushed down on the pin. Bones and tendons resisted, punctuated with another wail of protest from John behind gritted teeth. Her lip curled, and with one final shove, an awful, wonderful crunch rippled through her ears as the rest of his flesh finally gave way. Metal on metal scraped as the pin hung out of the exit wound in John’s palm, dragging against the floor, but she couldn’t hear it over the feral, agonised howl that followed. 

She let him go, finally satisfied, and when she stood, John folded in on himself, clutching at his hand while his yowling devolved into strained sobs. 

Cora left his side, casting a glance at the chamber door, and moved to inspect what he had available at his workbench. She tried to ignore the sheets of skin he’d stapled to the wood earlier, but no urgency would distract from them. _**’GREED’**_ and _**’LUST’**_ shouted in angry ink on flayed skin, and her own chest stung at the sight. Whoever those people had been, wherever they were now, the whimpering man on the ground behind her had planned on doing the same to her. She looked down at his tools. A scalpel jumped out, as did a wrench. Easily concealable. Quick and quiet. 

“Fucking - bitch… - got no idea what you’re doing.” John ground out from his spot on the floor, and Cora turned to find him already pushing himself onto his hands and knees, forcing reclaimed control over his stunned body. He’d pulled the pin from his free-bleeding hand already. Fuck. Maybe he **_had_** been accustomed to that level of pain to be recovering so quickly. Nevertheless, she needed to leave, quickly. 

She tucked the wrench into the belt of her pants and kept the scalpel in her undressed hand while she stepped past the Baptist. He grabbed weakly for the leg of her pants and she simply continued to walk. 

“Come back -” John panted, “-Have to - have to stay - or...”

Cora pressed down on the door handle.

_**“Deputy, please.”** _

That caught her attention. 

One last time, Cora cast a look John’s way. He’d ceased his struggling to look back at her, stilled on all fours, face full of fury and pain and anguish. Adelaide’s words from earlier that day draped over her thoughts like a premonition. _On his knees...begging..._

Her ears grew hot, and yet, the Deputy tilted her head to the side, absorbing the image for just a second longer than required. 

Aside from all the blood?

Not bad.

Adelaide had a point.

Tugging the door open, Cora slipped out of the room, leaving John on his own. It’d only be a matter of time until he recovered enough to catch up, and trapped down here with no unbound allies, she needed to find Hudson and get the fuck out as soon as humanly possible. 

The corridor seemed like a good place to start.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The gang had placed themselves back on the main road. If there was any chance of running into working transportation, it was there. As a group, they’d decided the best route was to secure a Peggie vehicle - truck, van - it didn’t matter; so long as they were travelling under the P.E.G logo, they had a shot of getting to John’s bunker without raising suspicion. 

The routine went something like this: wave down a car, point a gun at the driver, and commandeer that shit. Easiest shit they’d done so far, right? Only thing was, being twilight and all, it wasn’t so simple being able to tell this from that. So far, they’d intercepted 3 escaped civilian cars and 0 Peggies, and being dressed as the latter did not make for an easy apology. 

“This shirt stinks like skunk.” Jess grumbled, trailing beside Sharky while the group wandered by the roadside. 

“Check the pockets, then, dummy. You might get lucky.” He grumbled back. 

“Adelaide doesn’t have to wear the uniform. Why do I?”

A scoff sounded up back from the woman in question. “Sweetheart, I’m livin’ out a fantasy right now. It ain’t fun if I’m not the only hostage.”

“Oh! Oh! We got one!” Hurk exclaimed up ahead, pointing at a faint glow sliding through the trees around the bend. Headlights. 

The vehicle drew closer, and in the pre-dawn hue, Sharky squinted. Boxy...white... faint black decal on the hood. 

“Reaping van!” He barked, following Hurk onto the asphalt and waving his arms over his head. “Lock and load. Don’t start shooting ‘til I give the signal.”

“What fucking signal?” Jess spat, tugging at an arrow.

“When _**I**_ start shooting, Jess.”

The approaching van pulled up beside the group, choir music drifting through the open window. The handbrake clicked, and while Hurk and Sharky approached the driver’s side, a bearded Peggie leaned out of the window with a welcoming smile. On the passenger’s side, a skinny woman waved excitedly.

“Y’all are out early.” The man commented. “Looks like you picked up a stray or two.”

“Yeah, uh…-” Sharky stammered, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the gang. Adelaide and Xander waved, returning the friendly exchange. Jess looked like she was about to burn through the earth’s crust. Boomer was cycling through coughing up a twig and chewing it back down. “Insomnia gang. Y’know how it is.”

The Peggie chuckled, tapping his hand against the window frame. “I hear you, brother. Just grateful that John has a place for us night-owls.”

“Ain’t he just the sweetest?” The arsonist echoed.

“A real one.” Hurk agreed. 

“Ass like a 20 year-old.” 

The Peggie’s head whipped around to Adelaide, sneering. “The Lord’s work is never done, and our cycle is a testament to that. Sooner that one gets baptised, the better.”

Sharky could’ve put his fist through the dude’s skull right then and there for that comment, but a giggle from his Aunt steadied his hand. 

“Believe me, I’m lookin’ forward to it.” She cooed.

This time, her comments went ignored. The Peggie simply turned his attention back to Sharky and Hurk, smile renewed and sincere.

“Got our own soul in-back already. Y’all want us to take your waywards off your hands?”

“Nah,” Sharky shrugged, “Thanks though. We’ll take it from here.”

He was met with a couple of frowns.

“What do you mean?” The man asked.

“I mean you’re walkin’ home, bozo.”

The arsonist yanked the shotgun out of his belt and aimed it through the window, inches from the man's face. The gang followed suit, everyone pointing their own weapons, and suddenly, Sharky could see some of the appeal in playing the leader. 

He felt fuckin’ badass. 

Both sets of Peggie eyes widened. Hands raised slowly in submission. 

Herding them out of the van was a cinch after that. Stripped of their radios and guns, both Peggies were ordered to walk into the woods, not to stop until they’d counted to a hundred. Once they’d disappeared, it was all systems go, and the excitement was getting contagious. 

Everything was going according to plan. 

Hurk moved to the rear doors of the van, reminding Sharky that they still had a hostage presence in the back of the vehicle. After a quick squabble over who would get the honour of being the rescuer, the cousins agreed to take one door each and share the glory.

They both yanked, beaming into the lamplit cell bearing a single terrified hostage.

“Hey, amigo!” Hurk hollered.

“Wanna join a rescue mission?” Sharky echoed. 

The reaction wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as the boys had hyped it to be. Something along the lines of _‘fuck yeah’_ would’ve been sweet, but instead, the guy just stood up, trembling. Hurk and Sharky exchanged a look as the bound man hopped out of the van, and then another when he proceeded to sprint away up the road.

“O-okay! No sweat! Suit yourself!” Hurk called.

Sharky, meanwhile, blinked at the retreating figure. _No thanks or nothin’._ When he rounded the vehicle and slipped behind the wheel, he found Jess already buckled into the passenger’s seat. The moment he opened his mouth, the ferocity of the death glare she shot his way was enough to clamp his jaw shut again.

The others clambered into the back of the van, and Sharky unlocked the handbrake, stepping on the clutch and putting it in first. They were ready. Everything was lined up. 

Then, a thought occurred to him.

“Hey, uh, I don’t s’pose any of you actually knows where John’s bunker is.”

Silence.

“...Aw, fuckin’ damnit, I was afraid to ask.” Hurk grunted.

_**“Jesus, Sharky-”** _

“Jess, don’t you start-”

“What’re we supposed to do?!” The woman spat, “Ask for fucking directions?! What if those Peggies get there before we do?”

"Shit, I dunno! Maybe they'll come back with another van to steal and we'll keep in mind to ask next time!"

Adelaide hummed over Jess’s shoulder, thoughtfully. “Maybe askin’ directions isn’t such a bad idea. Hurk, gimme one of them radios.”

Sharky twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder, pushing Boomer aside when the dog took the opportunity to start licking his face, and watched as Adelaide plucked up a hand-held. She glanced around, inviting intervention, and when none came, held her thumb over the talk button.

“Good mornin’, sunshine. Over.” She chimed, drawing a loud noise of complaint from Jess.

For a moment, there was no response.

Then:  
  
_“Morning! Go ahead and state your numbers when you’re ready. Over.”_

A woman. Sounded a little elderly.

There was a panicked pause in the van. Numbers?

_Oh, shoot. Nevermind. Hangover from dispatch days.”_

Adelaide grinned.

“Who’ve I got on the line?”

_" Nancy here, honey. Swapped out for just this morning.”_

“Lucky.” Adelaide paused to savour the other woman’s chuckle. “Listen, Nancy - this is mortifying, but we used to be Faith’s...-"

 _”Such a tragedy, what happened. I hope y’all know we’re happy to have you down here with us.”_ Nancy offered. 

“You’re a sweetheart. Look, I still don’t know my rights from my lefts down here. Right now, we’re on the roadside with no idea how to get home.”

_“Happy to help. So the way I remember it is just to head West. After a while, there’s only 2 main roads that head out that way. You reach Lamb of God church - you’ve gone too far, but once you get it in reverse, you can just follow the Black Horse Peak signage.”_

“Heaven-sent. Wish me luck.”

_“Fingers crossed honey. Over and out.”_

Adelaide set down the radio then, and Sharky gawked at her from his seat, awestruck.

“Well,” The woman declared, “Now we know where we’re goin’.”

“Holy shit, Aunty.” Sharky breathed. “I didn’t know you were bi.”

* * *

  
  


Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck, fuck fuck._

This was bad. This was so fucking bad.

“Nancy-” John panted, racing around a corner, one hand clutching the radio to his cheek and the other bound and tucked into his waistcoat, utterly useless. “Nancy, we have a breach.”

 _”Oh god.”_ The woman’s fear was thick through the speaker, already anticipating the identity of their attacker. Perhaps confiding in the Father had been a smart move, after all. That retribution Joseph mentioned on the Deputy’s end was well and truly in motion. _"John, I swear, I'll never give directions again."_

Without Stammos knowing the bunker layout, it was difficult to track her, or more accurately avoid her. She was armed, deadly, and he wasn’t going to take his chances by banking on her neglecting to kill him a second time. The first was already lucky enough. No, right now, he needed to get to safety. He needed to get everyone to safety. There was a killer on the loose and-...  
  
Directions?

“What? No - I need you to initiate lockdown up there. Get everyone you can behind a door, and seal the entrance."

John didn’t bother with awaiting a response from Nancy. Instead, he flipped his hand over and shot a look at his watch while he ran. Bordering on 5am. 

_**Fuck.** _

He was supposed to have Stammos ready to be shipped off by daybreak. The same routine as all Jacob’s other recruits. He had an hour to regain control. Settle down the flock. Minimise and clean up any potential casualties. Secure the escapee. Get stitched up before he passed out. Nausea gripped the Baptist. This was already a disaster. He didn’t even want to think about how he’d explain it to Jacob and Joseph - the lead-up, the injuries, the escape.

_That fucking Deputy._

There was nothing she wouldn’t ruin.

He had to get to Hudson before the lockdown. Ensure that her rogue partner couldn’t remove her from the bunker. The potential loss of one Deputy was bad enough, but both was unthinkable. Hudson was his best asset in terms of leverage. She’d remained bound - she hadn’t pulled any cheap tricks - she’d said yes and meant it in earnest. She hadn’t left him wounded, with a busted lip and a fake confession and a sickening feeling of betrayal.

Had he deliberately fed Stammos the impression of going free after their chat despite having zero intention to let her go, regardless of Joseph’s change of plans? Yes. However, he’d also been under the impression that this little detail was inconsequential, given that the whole point of Confession was to convert the woman anyway. To convince her to stay. It had almost felt like things were going that way at some points; after all those years denying him even small-talk, the Deputy, with no absence of resistance, managed to let him in. They’d conversed for the first time, and maybe in John’s excitement, he’d strayed from his usual interrogation in favour of savouring that. 

It was his fault for trusting that she wouldn’t take advantage of his authenticity. He’d overestimated her own, and despite all of Joseph’s prior warnings to _be softer, John, you have to love them, John,_ his kindness was his downfall. 

He had to spin this, somehow. Had to fill in the blanks of how the fuck this escape occurred in the first place. Even if he caught the Deputy, there was no demanding secrecy from his followers. There was no accidental lockdown. His stigmata wouldn’t disappear and his face wasn’t going to heal in time to suit not having been present. He could claim that he’d gained the injuries from bravely intercepting the woman while she was storming the bunker; that he’d engaged her with the mindset of protecting the flock and received his wounds from battle and definitely _**not**_ because he’d drawn within headbutting distance of what was absolutely, positively not an attempt to kiss her. 

**_Twice._**  
  
Which didn’t matter anyway, because it didn’t happen. All that mattered was damage control. Jacob's people would arrive soon, and if he didn't secure the Deputy, they'd be returning to the mountains empty-handed. There was no telling how angry either of his brothers would be at the news that she'd escaped, and no matter the lengths John had gone to keeping her, he'd be held accountable. The will of the Father had been denied. Jacob would go without a recruit to filter through his trials. 

Stammos would continue to run amok in Holland Valley, and they'd have to bank on yet another clumsy miracle pulling her from the woodwork in order to seize her again. 

John slowed, frowning, bracing himself against the railing to catch his breath and think for a moment. 

Come to think of it, the situation didn't seem nearly as disastrous in that context.

If he had no Stammos to offer, then, working off a technicality, he wouldn't be losing her to his brother. He'd be releasing her from his custody to live another day out in Holland Valley. In his territory, where he was king. She'd still be his responsibility. If he let her go - chased her out, even - his retaliation might appear noble. His wounds could've been gained from a fight and not a blunder. His followers might look to him as the man who purged evil from their domain, rather than one would failed to contain it. Being the Baptist carried its risks; it could be a dangerous job. He’d been brought face-to-face with one of the figureheads of the Resistance. One of the demons continuing to lead the remaining herd of sinners astray. She’d killed loyal members of the Project. She’d murdered Faith and eluded even Joseph himself. Was it really that shocking that such a monster managed to break from her binds and resist Atonement? That in her desperation to evade redemption, she lashed out at the man offering it?

That she left him with no choice but to prioritise the lives of his faithful? Surely Joseph would look favourably upon that.

It wasn't a solid story, but it could grow yet. 

_”Attention, brothers and sisters,”_ Nancy’s voice wavered, intonation following along with the script provided, _“Please excuse the interruption. We ask that all Project members proceed to carry out internal lockdown procedures. I repeat: please proceed to lockdown. Stand by for brother John’s word.”_

John snapped back into motion, darting up the stairs, frantically muttering a prayer for the sake of clarity. Begging the Lord to give him confirmation that his heart was in the right place.

His thumb pressed back down on the button, and he swallowed thickly. "Nancy, there's been a change of plan. Leave the entrance open. Unlock the Angels’ pen.”

_"John? What's going on?"_

It wasn't a lie if his intentions were pure. If he emphasized the truths that suited him. 

"We're either going to overwhelm her, or we're going to flush her out."

God, he prayed for the latter.

_Prioritise. Forget the cover story for now. Protect your people. God is guiding you._

Get to Hudson, take cover, and let the Angels take care of the rest. Overcome this obstacle. Emerge a paragon despite the trial. 

Deal with the Deputy.

Deal with Wrath.

* * *

  
  
  


Cora stalked the corridor, scalpel-in-hand and bloodied to the elbow. A lifeless gurgle drifted from an Angel on the floor as she passed, paying no mind.

How anyone managed to find their way around this place was beyond her. Corner after corner, more cylindrical hallways led to more living spaces dotted with furniture of varying styles and eras. Probably winnings from the Reaping. Every wall was either graffitied with the name of a sin, bore John’s black variation on the Eden’s Gate flag, or presented a photo of Joseph. Some of the longer hallways had entire phrases stamped onto them, ringing faint bells of familiarity from recesses of Cora’s mind, acting as her only landmarks while she scoured the place for her partner.

Well, that and the corpses. The system she'd established so far was simple: If the Angels were dead, it meant she'd already come through at least once. If they were alive, then she was treading new ground. She had no gauge on how much time had passed since she'd left the Confession chamber. All the identical rooms that might have felt familiar to a resident blurred together. Every dead, shaven Angel looked the same. She might well have been lopping through the same space, past the same bodies, over and over, had it not been for the stairwells and the occasional new kill.

The alarm had already been sounded at some point. John must have gotten in touch with his followers, seeing as how the only living creatures Cora had come across thus far were the Project’s zombies. She would’ve mistaken the place for abandoned had the overhead speakers not been announcing lockdown reminders.

It was a familiar voice. One she hadn’t heard in months.

Nancy. 

The Dispatcher that had sold out the Sheriff's Department and warned Joseph of his arrest.

Hudson wouldn’t have been trapped down here in the first place if it weren’t for her. Pratt wouldn’t currently be up in the Whitetails. The Project wouldn’t have been so ready to retaliate to Joseph’s arrest had she not been their informant. Cora hadn’t ever grown familiar with the traitor back in the day; she’d been just as avoidant of sweet old Nancy as she had literally every other person barring Sheriff Whitehorse, and for that, there wasn’t so much of an excuse for her to be feeling as angry as she did. Still, it bubbled away in her - consuming her - eclipsing all other emotion beyond rage and fire and and this **_need_** to hold some soul accountable of what had been done to her and her partner. Hudson had been tortured, terrorized, for months on end. Cora had been probed and crippled and broken into a nauseating point of willingly giving up her secrets. They’d both been forced into giving John their blessing to label them with sin.

Why couldn’t that shit stain have just stayed in the chamber where she’d left him?

She should’ve fucking killed him. She should have, and she didn’t, and now his continued existence held the evidence of her hesitation - of her pity - of those few, tiny little glimpses into an understanding between them. That he’d forced his way into her space and she, disgustingly, gut-wrenchingly, waited until the last possible second to force him back out. 

_Erase it._ Nothing happened in that room beyond the torture of 2 Sheriff’s Deputies and the punishment of 1 murderous cultist. No grey areas. No lines to read between.

_Don’t think about it. Stay angry. Hold them accountable._

She’d come out here with the expectation of resistance - of some attempt to restrain her. Not however many hundreds of Peggies hiding behind walls of iron while she searched their home. That struggle against John had awoken her stress response, but after leaving him alive, the Deputy was now left with an overdose of adrenaline and nowhere to put it. 

There was no one to take out her justifiable frustrations on for being stuck in this fucking metal maze.  
  
_Punish them. They did this. They made you soft for seconds on end. **Unforgivable.**_

Frantic whispers awaited around a corner as she approached, and Cora didn’t even bother to wait. She didn’t stop to count the voices or calculate her approach. Two Angels had huddled together amongst shipping crates, and in the second it took for the Deputy to spring onto the back of one, hooking her shoddy arm around its skull and pulling its throat wide open with the blade, an alerting scream erupted from its partner. It wasn’t mournful. It wasn’t human. It didn’t spare a glance at the choking body as it slipped from Cora’s grasp. No pain registered on its face when it lunged forward, swinging blindly, inviting the scalpel right up into its eye socket. The creature just kept grabbing, snarling, not slowing until Cora shoved forward, trapping it against the wall and shoving the scalpel the rest of the way into its brain. Blood spurted from the wound, catching the woman point-blank in the face.

When it went limp and sunk to the floor, Cora let go, blinking red out of her eyes and huffing in irritation. 

Nothing. Still nothing.

Angels just didn’t fucking cut it anymore. There was no quiet in her brain after going through them. They were too clumsy. Too dull. Just new blood on her clothes and continued dissociation. Maybe that was why Nancy’s voice felt so delicious. The other woman was at least alive - sapient. She’d betrayed her colleagues. Allowed a pack of cultists to kidnap and kill the locals she’d sworn to protect. She was an enemy; she deserved punishment, and unlike anyone else down here right now, she was tangible. She existed, and it was entirely possible to put an end to that.

Cora rounded another corridor, expecting yet another symmetrical webbing of hallways and living spaces. This time, however, a staircase awaited, wider than the cramped spaces she’d been using to ascend. 

Promising.

She followed, peering at the verse that had been scrawled overhead on the ceiling.

_**'For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged. And with the measure you use, it will be measured again for you. - Matthew 7:2'** _

Cora felt a pang of indignance at that, frowning hard and picking up her pace to escape the looming words. 

_Hudson._ _Think about Hudson. Think about the rescue. Think about the escape._  
  
If they happened to come across Nancy along the way, or had the opportunity to finish John off, however - 

When she made it to the top of the stairs, another verse drew Cora’s attention upward.

_**'Judge not, lest you be judged. - Matthew 7:1'** _

“Oh fuck off, Jesus.” The Deputy hissed under her breath. “I’m well within my rights.” 

The room ahead was much larger than the living spaces below. Desks dotted the area amongst shipment crates like a makeshift lobby. On the opposite side of the room, more steps spiralled along a section of wall reading: _**'BLACK HORSE PEAK.'**_

Black Horse Peak. Holland Valley. Home.

She was almost at the surface. 

A speaker screeched to life nearby, to her immediate right rather than echoing through the bunker. Cora twisted around, eyes blown wide and pupils constricted to pinpoints.

A office window, reinforced with wire mesh hung between her and the room beyond. Beyond it looked like a control panel. CCTV monitors. Computers. Phones. Hudson’s bound form struggled in her chair on the far side of the room, already aware of Cora's presence. Some point after being wheeled out of the Confession chamber, she’d had duct tape fixed over her mouth, and even though Cora couldn’t make out what she was saying, it was clear she was trying to yell something to her partner - eyes darting between the window and the doorway that separated them. 

John.

He watched her from behind the glass, unblinking. Where he’d gone and put all that hysteria from earlier, Cora wasn’t sure, but barring the sweat in his shirt and the forming bruise on his bottom lip, he’d regained his composure completely. His hand, while battered, had been stitched up and dressed. She’d wanted to see him fearful. Instead, he looked upon her with some delighted reverence, eyes raking over her from his fortified little room where she couldn’t get to him. 

_“Oh, Deputy. Look at you.”_ His voice carried through the speaker, grainy. _“And you still haven’t had your fill?”_

As strongly as instinct objected to taking her eyes off her targets, Cora found her darkened reflection in the window. Every inch of her front, barring the whites of her eyes and teeth, was soaked crimson - drenched to the bone. 

Confusion seeped into her mind at the sight. No, this wasn’t right. This wasn’t her. She hadn’t cut through nearly enough Angels to warrant looking like this. Not enough to have her hair blackened against her head or for the squelch in her boots to suddenly feel this obvious. Her teeth began to chatter behind closed lips, chest tightening and rational thought returning. 

Fuck. She couldn’t give an estimate of how many she’d killed. She could hardly even remember the most recent. 

Nausea crested in her gut, tightening her throat.

 _”Pitiable thing. Gorging yourself on violence and murder. I’m here to help you - I really am - but I’m afraid your little tantrum’s leaving me without much choice. **‘For the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God’.** “_ John chanted, pulling her attention back to the half-smile. There was almost a kindness in it. Mercy, despite being the one taking shelter in that little control room. 

Cora had never been afraid of John Seed, but in that moment, he sounded more like Joseph than he ever had. His eyes bore into her, just as penetrating - like he recognised her, like he knew her. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her, through her, into her.

In that moment, despite the shatter-proof glass and a concrete wall between them, she was terrified of him. 

_Get out._

John’s face grew dark, pointed. Grinning once more. _”And Wrath you are.”_ He cast a look over his shoulder at Hudson, then back to Cora. _“Your partner’s done exquisitely. Hudson earnestly agreed to be redeemed, and now, she’s on the path to Atonement. You, on the other hand - you’re just not ready yet. If you insist on straying further from the path - if you’d rather destroy yourself and sacrifice your friends before you’re capable of seeing reason, then I’ll let you.”_

Was he -? No. He couldn’t have been offering to let her leave. She wouldn’t take it. Every atom that had been crying out for blood was now shrieking for her to take the survival option while it was willingly offered, but she couldn’t. She had to take Hudson with her. 

The Baptist noticed her gaze fix on her partner, who’d stilled herself at the revelation. The first of the two to find peace with the situation. There was no way of getting to her in there. No way of saving her. John had given his stalemate. The grind of metal and hissing ventilation stirred against the white noise in Cora’s ears. Reason caught up with her after the dizziness had already settled in. Bliss. The lobby was being flooded with the stuff.

 _“You want your freedom, Deputy? Take it.”_ John snapped, and already, the drug entering her system was in agreement. **_Yes - take it. Go._ **_“Your heroine will be here when you come crawling back to beg for your salvation.”_

Fuck - **_no._**

She wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

Hudson watched her, cheeks tugging against the tape in the closest attempt of a smile, and Cora felt her eyes itch. A blessing. Permission.

She waited just one more second to take a step backward. Then another, carrying herself to the stairs, picking up pace and resolve until she was sprinting. Once she’d had the room crossed, finding the base of the stairwell, the woman cast a final look at the two. Hudson was unchanged. Just as determined as ever. She could wait. Cora would be back for her.

John, meanwhile, had done a complete 180. The smile was gone. The anger, too. His face was twisted, tired, eyes no longer so piercing. She’d never seen him look so miserable. 

Then, she broke away, forcing herself up through the spiral staircase with Bliss taking over her senses. Pain numbed, time slow and sluggish. She kept running. No thoughts, no instinct, no other function beyond _escape._ She shoved her way through the vault door at the top of the stairs, spilling out of the bunker and into the chilly Holland Valley air and _fuck - who knew air could taste so good._

The sun hadn’t broken through the mountains yet, but it was almost light out. 

She took little notice of her surroundings. Parked trucks and shipping containers passed by on her way to the gate, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, at least until a Reaping van slid into her periphery, skidding to a halt by the roadside up ahead. 

Peggies spilled out of every door, whooping and cheering words she refused to lend focus to, converging on her. Cora’s hand flew to her belt, withdrawing the wrench as she skidded to a halt and hurled it at the goateed blonde at 12 o’clock. It whizzed past his skull just as two massive arms coiled around the Deputy’s torso from behind, pinning her arms to her body and lifting her, kicking and howling off of the ground.

 _”No!”_ John’s voice crackled around the compound. _“Leave the sinner!”_

“Dep, you gotta calm down-...” The Peggie drawled over her shoulder. His voice drowned out with the familiar barking of a dog, and the black and grey mass hurtling toward her, alternating between yips and whines while it danced around her captor’s feet. Boomer.

Cora stilled. 

_**Boomer.** _

The blonde Peggie jogged to a stop in front of her, and Cora felt her feet touch down on grass again as she looked up at him. 

_Sharky._

Hurk crept into view, followed by Jess - each of them dressed in Project-branded linens.

Cora’s legs felt wobbly at the sight, gears in her head seizing, unable to make sense of what was happening.

“Wh - What…” Was all she could muster, but it was enough to pull a toothy grin from Sharky.

_”You. Identify yourselves.”_

No mind was paid to the warning tone from the speakers.

“Only here to rescue you.” The arsonist bragged, beaming. “We had like - no joke, the ultimate plan to storm the place. Looks...uh, looks like you had similar ideas, though.”

Rescue? 

The Deputy scowled at that, eyes prickling and earning a sheepish chuckle. 

“And you...wrecked my shirt.” He scratched at his scalp then, wincing at a droplet of blood that slid off of the woman’s chin. “Dude, no criticism, but I’m gonna be a hundred percent honest. You look like you were just at a real fucked up version of the Kid’s Choice Awards. But hey, it’s cool! Check it out; we got some wheels!”

_Rescue._

That stupid fucking canary.

Cora didn’t look when Sharky gestured over at the Peggie van they’d climbed out of. She didn’t reply. All she registered was the swell in her chest and her arms wrapping around the man’s waist, and the stench of old cannabis and urine. Right then, nothing had ever smelled better. 

Sharky himself went entirely rigid. 

“Hurky, what’s she doing? Shorty? You okay?” 

“I dunno, bro. Just stay ultra still.” Hurk whispered. "Don't spook it."

Thank God this was just as freakish to them as it would usually be to her. 

After a moment, though, a reciprocal hand draped around The Deputy’s shoulders, and everything grew heavy. Tired.

“Alright. Sweet as this is, what say you we go find you a shower?”

"Yeah." Cora choked, stifling a wobble in her voice. "Let's do that."

* * *

  
  


The group on the camera feed retreated, slowly, making their way back to the stolen vehicle, and John tried his hardest not to tremble in the presence of Hudson. He’d fallen silent, watching their exchange. Unable to make out the words on grainy black-and-white lips. 

He knew this group. They were the pack of hillbilly sinners Stammos had been dragging around the Henbane on her quest to terrorize Faith. The Drubman family. That feral niece of the insane prepper that stalked Joseph’s territory. The supposedly lost shepherd dog, prancing around, clear as day.

And Sharky Boshaw, with one arm around the Deputy who hated human touch, leading her out of the compound with her head against his arm. It was all the Baptist could do, to resist the urge to call on his Chosen. To have that lanky bastard in particular hunted and strung up on display the moment Stammos had wrapped her arms around him. 

_”Enjoy your reunion, Deputy!”_ He spat into the microphone, grinding teeth when Boshaw simply flashed his middle finger. _“Savour your followers while you can. Your reckoning will be theirs!”_

Then, as the group disappeared into the Reaping van, John felt his heart sink. 

_There she goes._ Out of his grasp. Surrounded by allies. Off to continue defying the Project and the Father. Safe and sound. Away from him.

Away from his brothers.

That was the one redeeming thought amongst all this. She was gone, yes, but at least while she wasn’t in anyone’s custody, including his own, then Joseph’s plans for her couldn’t be put into effect. 

John would have a lot to answer for; a lot to cover for. He’d have to atone. He’d gone against the will of the Father by letting Stammos escape, and now, he needed to get his story straight.

He’d bought time. It was God’s intervention through John’s own that had released the sinner, and barring the clean-up, things could’ve gone worse. Joseph would forgive him. Joseph would understand, and if he didn't, John would convince him. Regardless of how near the Collapse drew, he might be able to convince his brother that the woman belonged in Holland Valley with the Baptist.

They could play cat and mouse for just a little longer. He could keep picking away at her psyche. They could keep talking and she could keep smelling like cinnamon and looking at him with those big, green eyes, and once he’d killed all her friends and finally persuaded her to join him, maybe she’d let him get close enough without almost knocking his teeth loose. 

_Battery._

Fucking wonderful. He could hardly wait to hear the story. Maybe she'd offer it willingly, out of gratitude, if she ever realised that he'd helped her escape.

A rustle of material caught John’s attention, and his gaze flickered to Hudson. 

She watched him. Scrutinising. Questioning. 

“Your little friend gets a 24 hour head start.” He announced, clearing his throat, returning his attention back to the monitor. 

The van doors closed shut, and the vehicle made it’s way out of sight. 

24 hours. 

His brow furrowed. The terms he’d set sounded much less savoury out loud. 

John plucked at his hand-held, holding it to his cheek. 

“Do you know if our brothers from that Reaping van are still in possession of their radios, Nancy?”

An unsure hum returned through the speaker.

 _”I’m not certain.”_ The dispatcher replied, and the coil that twisted in John’s gut nearly had him doubled over. 

He swore, cursing his ill fortune. 

_”But there was definitely a radio still in the van when it was stolen. We spoke and everything.”_

…

Bless that foolish old woman. 

Everything flipped. Butterflies chased away the discomfort in his stomach. A grin spread across John’s face without him even thinking to put it there. 

“Forward the frequency they were on, as soon as you can.”

Progress. Hopeful news. He could keep a tab on Stammos. At the very least, he could send messages to her without broadcasting them all over the valley, and with the veil of distance between them, he didn’t even have to worry about her beating him up again. No hiding expressions - no distractions carrying her scent - or the way she looked - or the heat of her breath - or the press of her thighs or-

Just like that, the coil in his gut returned and his ears grew hot. He could feel Hudson’s gaze still on him, but this time, he failed to muster the gall to return her look for fear that she might guess his runaway thoughts.

Okay. 

Jacob may have been right, in some respect. Joseph, too.

It was probably time to consider the possibility that he might have something of a crush on Deputy Stammos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> It only took 70k words, but John is finally coming around to this whole fixation thing. Meanwhile, Cora gets along with a fellow human for about 20 minutes and then proceeds to go absolutely ape-shit. Some people don't react well to development.
> 
> I really hope y'all enjoyed this one! This chapter was chaos, and a moment of peace and quiet for the gang is in order.
> 
> Find me at baeogorath.tumblr.com and scream in my face if you're equally as frustrated with John and Cora's stupidity as I am. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! You guys have been a massive support through writing this so far, and I hope to keep entertaining you with this bullshit into 2021.


	13. This Must Be The Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of the 18th of February, I am officially moved!
> 
> I have returned to you with some fresh trash. Please enjoy. 
> 
> Let's fill 2021 with slow burn and repressed sexual tension together <3

Jacob blinked hard, pinching his brow and rolling the sleep from the corners of his eyes. A yawn attempted to creep its way up through the muscles in his neck, but he held it down with a grimace.

Nancy briskly led Jacob and Deputy Pratt through the foyer of the bunker, passing a squad of John’s Chosen on the way through while they geared up to return to their patrol. One or two offered an out-of-practice salute, aware that the Herald surveying the area had once been the man who’d trained them for their roles. Others gave a nod here and there. All eyed him with as much suspicion as they would any other outsider, and he appreciated that cold reception the most. This was John’s territory, and regardless of Jacob being the man’s brother, he was a stranger to them. A potential hostile. 

Each of them were at ease once more once he’d crossed the room, but out of the corner of his eye, Pratt had staggered his pace to give his own salute to the group. 

Idiot. 

“Wrong region, Peaches.” Jacob grumbled over his shoulder.

All the same, the Chosen responded, snapping back to attention and returning the gesture to the young man while he scurried after his master. 

“Right. Yessir. S-sorry sir.”

Just like that, he was right back by Jacob’s side, heeled without aid of leash nor command.

The salutes, however, didn’t slacken until they’d both passed into the stairwell. 

Something prideful stirred in Jacob at that. Evidence of the success of his training, well after he was no longer present in their lives. His influence kept on; his legacy preserved. They’d protect the family well after he was dead and gone. Perfect soldiers, obeying protocol without rehearsal, able to fall in line and function as their own commanding officers. 

Faith’s Chosen had been the same, before she’d thrown them into that ham-fisted jail assault and gotten them all killed. Jacob ensured that the attitude of his Chosen extended to the rest of his soldiers, no matter the role they carried out. Every kitchen hand and janitor knew how to kill with precision. Even the most mundane tasks were carried out with the Soldier’s teachings in-mind. 

John’s followers, on the other hand, were an overly pious pack of fools. 

Even from behind locked doors and through reinforced screens, the worker ants waved merrily while Jacob trudged through the corridor, keeping his gaze forward, avoiding eye contact so as to escape any obligation to wave back. Nancy had been chattering away while Jacob and his assistant followed her deeper underground, but he’d tuned her out after ‘good morning’, much more intent on nursing his throbbing skull.

It wasn’t as if the early morning start was a new occurrence; Jacob’s body clock had him wide awake at 5:00am every day for the better part of 30 years. Lack of sleep was a rare problem, so long as a bottle was within reach. Those times where racing thoughts and memories and existential crises turned into fitful sleep or night terrors became easy to deal with when one could just knock themselves out. Spare themselves the stress and simply wake with little memory of any of it occurring in the first place. It had worked a treat just about every night for the past few decades.

Now, it was catching up to him.

His body was beginning to exact its revenge for its abuses over the years. Physical fitness, Jacob was finding, no longer equated to health once you started to get old. He could still keep a 5 mile run in under 30, but he was starting to ache. 

He was starting to notice how hoarse his breathing was compared to Nancy’s clacking heels and Pratt’s blaring silence while they walked. How much more he needed to rock his shoulders to combat the stiffness in his joints.

_He was hungover for the first fucking time in his life._

He was getting old, and he was angry about it. 

Along with the sour circumstance of his form this morning, the situation that had called on Jacob’s presence in the first place had managed to irritate him even more. From Joseph’s last-minute call the night prior to everything else that had transpired in the hours following, the Soldier was less than impressed. 

He’d gotten the rundown on the way over; once again, their wayward Deputy had managed to slip through their fingers, even despite being caged. She’d managed to escape Black Horse Peak somehow, and John had gotten himself injured trying to contain her. The bunker had been placed under lockdown, and Joseph had ordered their little brother to take himself home for recovery. Assured him that the three of them would convene at the ranch that evening. That the clean-up would be taken care of. That the _**Soldier**_ would get the Baptist’s bunker back up and running at full speed again. 

Glorified babysitting. 

Jacob knew better than to assume this was his only duty. He knew just as well as the Father that something reeked about this situation. Yeah, he’d be scooping the bodies out of the bunker and taking them home to the Judges, but there was an underlying purpose here: piece together the forensics of the story while he still had authorisation to snoop, and compare it to the one John had told them. 

He was there to find out if the Baptist was lying.

Shit, he had better things to do than play detective here all morning.  
  
If you asked him, this was all a waste of time. No one would, though. No one ever did. No consultation, just blind action. He hadn't even known that he was expected to run that little blonde idiot through the trials until Joseph's radio call the night prior. If he he'd been told to come and pick up that heeler he'd been promised for the Judge program, he might've been more excited, but this garbage? It was pointless.   
  
Pratt was trophy enough. He’d been the most unruly of Whitehorse’s disciples. Residents couldn’t stand him. A selfish little prick who joined the academy because a badge gave him authority over others and helped him get his dick wet every so often. The kid freely barked insults at anyone he didn’t like, and when he was met with resistance, his hand hovered over a gun that had likely never seen the outside of its own holster. 

He lacked discipline. Purpose. Jacob was all too happy to give that to him. 

The Soldier didn’t require smarts or personality from his recruits. Just strength. So, no matter how often John had raised the topic of Stammos’ attitude being particularly advantageous to them over the years, his praises fell on deaf ears. 'You should talk to her, Jake.' The Baptist would encourage. 'She's a lot like you. Likes the outdoors. Maybe you could convince her to come to my sermon this weekend.' All arbitrary. Whether he'd like the woman or not was beside the point.   
  
Habit didn’t matter. Personality didn’t matter - at least, not when Jacob had the facilities to meld his recruits’ brains to his liking.

There was nothing to consider beyond her appearance. Five foot tall. No reach. 

_**Weak.** _

The Cook had been a fluke, aided by that vengeful brat Jess Black. Faith had been dumb luck, backed by the Cougars. Whatever happened overnight in Black Horse Peak, Jacob had been banking on much the same. 

Somewhere along the trek down to the lower sanctum of John's bunker, however, something began to shift in his mind. After the trail of corpses had reached double digits, he’d started to second-guess himself. 

Nancy kept leading, and the three of them continued to descend, stepping over bodies and tuning out the woman’s apologies over ‘the mess’. Felt like forever, but she finally came to a halt outside John’s office.

“Confession Chamber’s just down the hall.” She announced hotly, by this point aware that neither of the men were going to entertain her conversation. Pratt avoided acknowledging her existence entirely, and beneath that indignance, Jacob could’ve sworn he’d caught a whiff of guilt on the woman. 

“Nothing’s been tampered with?” Jacob asked.

“John put Deputy Hudson back in her room and collected some of his things, but no one else has come down here.”

The Soldier ignored a flinch from Pratt at that name. “Good. Keep it that way. No one leaves their rooms until I say so. Understood?”

Nancy inclined her head and made to take her leave.

“Nance.” His voice tugged her back toward him. “CCTV?”

“Upstairs.” She confirmed. “Control room.”

“A coffee’ll be waiting for me when I get there. Black. Make sure it’s hot.”

The woman’s irritation became evident at that, nodding through her acknowledgement, and Jacob couldn’t help but crack a wolfish smile.

“Look sharp, Peaches. The lady doesn’t have all day.”

Pratt jolted, cowering away from Nancy and aiming his gaze at Jacob’s boots. “Uhm...juice, plea-”

“He'll have milk."

There it was. The guilt in Nancy’s eyes at a former colleague sinking as low in the pecking order as Pratt had. While the woman disappeared up the corridor, Jacob pondered whether his assistant had once been as much of a little prick to Nancy as he had the other Deputies. Far as he’d heard, John’s prisoner, Hudson, was the only one he didn’t try to push around. 

There was no way Nancy couldn’t have enjoyed it, even just a little - when she sold the kid out for her own survival. 

Jacob made for the Confession Chamber, ordering the door shut as soon as he and Pratt had entered. The place hadn’t been touched (allegedly) since lockdown was initiated, and thus, the place was a total mess. John had always taken issue with the Soldier’s recruitment methods - something about 'free will' or what have you - but looking around, particularly at the rusty workbench, the flayed skin on display, and the literal puddles of blood on the concrete floor, Jacob wondered what kind of moral high horse the Baptist thought he had on his brother.

He’d always known that John wasn’t kind to those he marked, but seeing it up close was off-putting. The man in charge of this space; a glorified torture chamber, had once upon a time rescued baby mice that had nested in their pantry. He’d had outright panic attacks looking into the mirror and wiggling his own loose baby teeth. He’d grown strong out there in the world on his own, which Jacob applauded, but along the way, he’d really gone and picked up a few nastier adjectives. 

Jacob tried not to dwell on imaginings of what stability his youngest brother would have attained had they all managed to stay together in their childhood. It didn’t serve any constructive purpose. John knew how to survive now. That was all that mattered. It was Jacob’s job to ensure things remained that way.

His gaze travelled to the surgical tray that had been left out after Deputy Stammos’s interrogation. A phone. A bottle of pills. Blackmail fodder, probably. Items that would’ve interested the Baptist, but Jacob had no use for them. Seeing them left out, and knowing how much of a control freak John could be, however, helped him begin to piece the story together. John wouldn't have made the conscious decision to leave these out. He’d never.

Jacob crossed the room, then, briefly inspecting the smeared blood that coated the floor on his way to an overturned office chair. Still wet. A couple of hours fresh and in two distinct locations. Considerable amount of it in both.

“Peaches, tell me what you can gather from the blood.”

Pratt's head whipped in his direction.

“Sir?”

“Show me my hunting training hasn’t gone to waste.” Jacob instructed. “If you were tracking the folks that were in this room, what would you say went on?”

His assistant bowed his head, examining both sites. “No directional movement. Doesn’t look like anyone was hit or thrown around. Like they stayed put.” He muttered. The former Deputy trailed along one zone, eyes narrowing. “Someone was on the move after they got hurt, though. Droplets lead out the door from this one.”

“And not the other.” Jacob agreed. “What does that tell you?”

“I-I’m not sure.”

The Soldier shook his head at that. “Someone’s wounds were dressed." He explained, gesturing. "Which means that one over there likely belonged to your little pal."

Possibly how Stammos might have gained traction in the first place. Could've used John's proximity and distraction against him. 

The outstanding question was how she’d managed to break free in order to attack the Baptist in the first place.

Jacob approached the chair, tugging it upright and plucking stained rope from the floor. The cord was frayed. Bloodied. Likely faulty, as per John’s suggestion. Joseph had switched out Nancy, John’s usual man for the job, with a less experienced member overnight, and it was possible that an oversight could’ve occurred.

Everything was lining up so far. All that he'd found pointed to negligence at worst, coupled with circumstance. No obvious lies were stacking up thus far. Big fucking relief. 

Jacob wouldn’t have cared either way, but Joseph had ordered Stammos remain unhurt for delivery. Johnny was in trouble regardless for disobedience, but any added crimes meant the difference between a slap on the wrist and being made an example of - and the Father had been losing patience with insubordination, lately.

They were drawing too near the Collapse to tolerate squeaky wheels. What with the amount of scrutiny their baby brother had been under lately, it was almost like the Father was actively trying to trip him up. Catch him out.

It made his head ache all the more to try and ignore - that nagging idea his family were turning on each other - 

_”Come in, Jacob.”_ The Soldier’s radio crackled, carrying Joseph’s serene monotone into the bunker.

Jacob snapped to attention.

Speak of the devil. 

“Take a walk, Peaches.” Jacob told the man hovering beside him. “Make a casualty count and meet me upstairs in 10. No detours.”

Pratt inclined his head and excused himself. As soon as the door behind him squealed shut, Jacob unclipped the radio and held it to his face.

“Present.” He answered, rubbing his thumb over the snapped cord in his hand. Upon closer inspection, the fraying looked less aged. 

_“Any news?”_

It looked like it had been sawn through. 

Jacob’s brow furrowed. “Lockdown’s still in place while we clean up. Casualties restricted to Angels only. No injuries, save for John. Nancy says she stitched him up before he left.”

_How badly hurt was he?”_

“Carved-up hand and a busted lip, just like we were told.”

Joseph hummed on the other end of the line. 

_”And Deputy Stammos? What’s the story?”_

The Father’s voice had a more urgent bite to it at that particular question, and Jacob found himself dismissing a pang of irritation. Both his brothers fixating on that half-wit runt. 

He couldn’t wrap his head around it. 

Jacob considered his response. If he hadn’t been concerned for the consequences in store for John, he would’ve answered with the whole truth; but The Father seemed to want to keep that little Deputy just as badly as the Baptist had. John was on thinner ice than he'd thought, and if he was caught lying on top of all his other meddling lately, he’d be getting more than just chewed out. 

What a fucking pain.

He didn’t enjoy lying to his family, but he _**had**_ sworn to protect them. If that meant avoiding being the flying monkey of one brother in order to keep the other out of harm’s way, then he was simply carrying out his duty. 

“Gone without a trace.”

_"A miracle, indeed.”_

There was a pause, then; Joseph either making his own considerations, or pressuring his brother to fill the silence. Jacob wasn’t certain which. 

Then, the Father wasn't nearly so vague. _”Jacob, do you think John would have any reason to mislead us?”_

Of course he did. Jacob had hoped that Deputy would’ve gotten herself killed by now, or at least been smart enough to use the remaining warm weather to come after him in the mountains rather than migrate to Holland Valley. She was a threat to his brother’s life, but after the conversation he’d had with John at the ranch before Faith was killed, Jacob had realised just how much danger John was in. If it hadn't been for her, he may not have to be covering the Baptist's ass like this. 

Jacob shook his head, glancing around as if Joseph could see him. Unfortunately, a screwdriver glinting on the floor caught his eye as he did so. Dried blood coating the shaft. 

“Looks more like a stroke of bad luck. Frayed rope and weak knots. I’d say Stammos got out, and John got hurt trying to keep her here.”

_“I didn’t ask for your take on what happened.” Joseph’s reply came immediately. “Do you think John has an ulterior motive?”_

Jacob was in no way a fan of being grilled like this. 

“No.” He answered, firmly, pressing his annoyance at his little brother. “John’s priority has always been taking in as many souls as possible. The flock is his family, and he put their lives ahead of that lady, even when it meant that she got away.”

 _”You think it was his **conscience** that was his undoing?”_ Joseph asked, drily.

Jacob chuckled at that, devoid of any actual humour “No, we both know he’s not that benevolent. Possessive, on the other hand...”

_“Indeed.”_

The Father seemed a hell of a lot more satisfied with that response.

_”Vigilant as ever, Jacob. Don’t fret. We’ll have Deputy Stammos in your hands before its too late.”_

Not that shit again. 

_‘Thanks but no thanks’_ lingered on his tongue. 

“Be there tonight, Father. Over and out.”

Jacob huffed, pinching his brow once the call had ended.

Whoever up there decided to make a prophet out of a middle child must’ve had a shitty sense of humour. 

His gaze turned to the chair, examining the arms. The sigh churned in his throat, swiftly working into a growl.

There it was: a small puncture in the metal, coated in dried blood. He couldn't help the heavy sigh that rolled out of him. 

“Jesus Christ, Johnny.” 

What the fuck was he thinking?

Jacob left the chamber, visibly irate and only growing more so on his climb back up to the control room. He wasn’t sure what the hell kind of an angle John was trying to spin on this, but their little brother was playing a dangerous game, and if the Soldier’s hangover hadn’t disappeared by that afternoon, he wasn't certain he'd have the self control to refrain from choking the idiot out himself. Faith’s demise should’ve been warning enough to them to play it cautious - but no. If anything, the Baptist had only grown more reckless.

He made his way up to the foyer, and promptly sat himself in front of a waiting cup of coffee and a monitor collaged with various camera feeds. There, with Pratt standing obediently over his shoulder, he observed Deputy Stammos’s trek from Confession Chamber to freedom.

Then, not quite believing his eyes, he played the footage a second time.

Then a third. 

Then, his gut started to churn. Not so much at the goriness of her Angel rampage, but at the dawning realisation that he might’ve made assumptions too soon about the woman’s ineptitude.

From room to room, she stalked, armed with an inch-long blade. Pratt had counted 24 casualties, total. Only Angels, of course, but there was something about the way that Deputy put down Faith’s last remaining pets that set Jacob’s brain alight.

Maybe it was the relentlessness of her attacks. The lack of fear in how she clashed against multiple charging enemies. How she neglected to even bother wiping the blood off her face until it started getting into her eyes. Tunnel vision. Razor-sharp focus. One singular focus.

John had set that woman on Holland Valley. Instead of locking her in the building and risked it with a few more bodies, he'd let her go free.

She was out there somewhere now, and she’d gotten a taste for the blood of their family. 

“We gonna go find her, sir?” Pratt’s voice cut through Jacob’s thoughts, and the Soldier shrugged one shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed on the monitor. Stammos marched from one screen to the next, culling Angel after Angel with a single, tiny weapon. She was sloppy - no obvious formal training or choreography, but the potential was there. There was no hesitation in her kills. If one method didn’t work, she didn’t back away and reassess. She simply kept going, like she was hard-wired for execution.   
  
Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe it wasn't such a lost cause to give her a chance. 

The Father had made a wise choice, digging his heels in. As always, he was fucking right.

That Deputy had the perfect drive to become one of the Chosen.

“No.” Jacob answered. “Fun as it’d be, this is sovereign territory. Unless she comes to the mountains, she’s my brother's responsibility.” 

A reality that worried him more with each passing hour. 

“Tell me," The Soldier drawled, "If you were authorised, would you kill that girl on the screen?”

“No, I-“

Pratt went pin-straight when Jacob’s gaze shot to him, flattening his back against the wall and interlacing his fingers in front of him. He eyed the floor, submissive and docile.

“I mean, I wouldn’t. Out of principle.”

_**“Principle.”** _

“No one escapes once we've caught them.” Pratt went on, shaking like a leaf by that point. “No one who was weak could do that. Killing the ones who do would be a waste.”

Jacob gave a nod. Satisfied with the answer. 

“Right on the money, Peaches. We don’t slay the strong.”

What good would it do, when that strength could be repurposed?

He turned back around. Watching the screen. Observing the little blonde as she stood off against John. Terrified - but there was something inherently predatory about her posture. Something that screamed the idea that escape wasn’t her first instinct.

Had his brother not locked himself away - forced her to take her leave, bloodied from head to toe - Jacob wagered the Deputy would’ve torn the man apart with her bare hands. 

Whatever hell John had set loose on Holland Valley, it couldn’t go to waste. 

They needed that on their side. 

“We'll train the little monster.”

* * *

“Arms up!”

Cora did as she was told, eyes scrunching shut at yet another blast of icy water hitting her point-blank from the garden hose in Sharky’s grip.

“Can’t I just come in?” The Deputy shivered, hopping from foot to squelching foot, squeezing more red into the wet grass with each step.

“No can do, Shorty. Not ‘til you’re clean.” Sharky answered, twisting the nozzle to cycle through potentially better options. 

It had been an...eventful morning. Between the escape from John's bunker and - actually, come to think of it, that was most of the morning - there was a surprising amount of assimilation back into mundanity. Rye and Son's had been left alone by the Peggies overnight, and as a result, everything was still. Peaceful. The birds had returned to the area, singing varied morning songs while the team peeled their leader out of their stolen Reaping van. Unfortunately for Cora, the Bliss that she'd been threatened with on her way out of Black Horse Peak hadn't been particularly high of a dose. A little visual distortion, sure, but none of the heavier effects.

Certainly not the memory loss, which would've been a god-send given that she'd much rather forget every single thing that had occurred during her stay. 

Particularly the fact that she'd _**embraced**_ the arsonist who was currently hosing her down...or that she'd stuck to his side like Velcro on the car ride back. 

He knew her well enough to not bring it up, which she'd initially appreciated - but in hindsight, Cora decided she would've preferred to find a reason to be angry at him. All his silence had served to benefit was her confidence in him. Her inclination to stick even closer to him than usual. To have stood out here in the Fall chill, allowing the bastard to spray her with alpine water rather than simply march into the hangar because _'Come on, Shorty. It's not fuckin' polite to get blood all up on someone's grandma's furniture.'._

Pretending to believe him when he'd once again aim the hose at her face and call it an accident.

She'd spent a lot of her time out here asserting to herself that all the new sentiment was the drug. She'd been put under enough times by now, though, to know that she was fooling herself. 

Now, all she wanted to do was sleep the thoughts away.

“I’m _**tired.**_ It’s _**cold."**_

One of the radios that the team had acquired had been chattering all morning, filling the quiet sleepiness of the hangar where everyone else was lazing while Sharky and Cora stood outside. At first, hearing John Seeds voice on the other end of the line, shouting insults at Nick and promising comeuppance had caused immediate panic for everyone on the property. After an hour, however, the collective hypervigilance died down. 

Apparently, they'd generated a means of contact with the Baptist himself, and for all his talk, he eventually seemed to grow tired of his own voice. Maybe he was just tired, period. Cora wondered whether or not he'd stayed with Hudson after she'd left. Whether he'd left to dress his wounds or decided to immediately make good on the threat he held over the other Deputy. 

He'd certainly been talking into empty space enough that she was certain he wasn't multi-tasking. 

It wasn't all that difficult to imagine the man huddled at a desk, devoting all of his energy to sounding as clever as possible over public airwaves.

A particularly forceful responding blast prompted a squawk from Cora. She attempted to step away, but the arsonist followed, pulling a face when a clot of blood fell free from the little woman’s hair and landed in the puddle with a _splat._

“Shoulda thought about that before you decided to go all rage monster on a bunch of brain-dead skinheads.” 

Over Sharky’s shoulder, Nick had decided to make an appearance; not noticing the colour they’d stained the ground with until one of his shoes was 2 inches deep in it. He looked like he’d been about to say something, but after that, he seemed much more intent on looking as dumbfounded as ever. 

Jesus, she couldn’t stand how stupid he always managed to look. He hadn’t even been here for 5 seconds and she was already irritated. 

“Haven’t left yet, Mr. Rye?” Cora asked, tone adequately biting.

Nick averted his gaze almost as soon as he caught her eye. “Naw, not -....” He paused to rub at the base of his skull, squinting, as if he was trying to search for the right words on the horizon. “Not yet.”

Cora left his reply to linger. Even if she’d deemed it worthy enough of a response, she wouldn’t have known what to say. Maybe Sharky would’ve filled the pointed silence, had he not become so enraptured with the small rainbow he’d just created with the mist setting on the garden hose. 

Her wise old canary, hard at work. 

“We were thinking about waiting until tomorrow.” Nick trailed once again. “Look, I’m real thankful for you bringing back Carmina. I don’t want you to mistake me for ungrateful-”

“Trust me, Mr. Rye - there’s no mistaking it.”

Nick’s shoulders sank at that. He observed her for a moment, gaze flickering down to the blooming bruises on her right hand beneath the cult-issue band-aids. Then, he exchanged a look with Sharky that Cora couldn’t quite make out the tone of. “I mean it." He levelled. "You did something real important for us. I might’ve lost my wife and kid if you hadn’t been here, or hell, they might've lost me.”

The Deputy shrugged, increasingly unsure of how to respond and eager to cut the sentiment from Nick’s thanks. “Don’t mention it.” She grumbled. “Part of the job.”

Nick rounded on her when she made a deliberate turn, facing her back to Sharky for a new rinse. She couldn’t contain the roll of her eyes.

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and folded them in his pocket. Perhaps just as uncomfortable with the exchange as she was, but braver to muscle through it. “You put yourself in danger for us.”

“Hm.”

“I’m glad that you’re back in one piece.”

Silence. Cora refused to look at him, instead feigning interest in the clouds overhead.

Nick huffed, chewing his lip with a shake of his head. Finally giving up. 

Then, the Deputy could feel the pilot’s eyes on her.

“You want a shower?”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Kim was in the living room when Cora entered, pushing out a laboured swear as she rose out of her squat. She’d been huddled over an open suitcase, but despite Nick swearing of their imminent take-off, Kim looked more like she was unpacking.

“Amazed to see Sharky’s plan actually worked-”

As soon as the blonde approached, Kim's gaze dropped to Cora’s swollen hand, immediately observing the soiled dressing and the stiffness in her gait. 

It wasn't often that the Deputy paid much mind to how people regarded her, but this was new. She knew she didn't look good, even after being hosed down. She'd gone swimming in river water, slept outdoors, and spent the night in a torture chamber. Any expectation of beauty was done away with weeks back. The others had so far regarded her injuries from recent days with indifference. They'd grown accustomed to watching each other take a beating on the daily, and their leader showing up with a fresh wound was nothing out of the ordinary.

Kim, however, was not one of the team. She was a popular face in Fall's End and she continually compensated for her husband's various shortcomings with an easy-going nature. Not much fazed the woman, and yet, she almost looked nauseated at the sight of the Deputy in her living room. Something about that dug an uneasy pit into Cora's stomach. Like the instinct to start bawling when a school nurse would flash genuine concern over a nasty scrape that would've otherwise gone unnoticed - some kind of suggestion that things were not nearly as okay as she'd assumed.

She almost felt guilty.

The Deputy could almost feel the cogs turning in Kim’s brain, being examined like this. Questions over what had happened. If she was okay. She didn’t want to think about it in all honesty. If she didn't linger on the topic, she could carry on with the certainty that she was doing fine. She wouldn't have to leave it to someone else to decide.

Cora stared at the floor, unable to look near Kim without feeling a swell in her throat.

“Your husband said I could shower.” The blonde croaked.

"Yeah." Kim nodded, seeming to regain her composure. "You look like a wet rat."

A second passed, and Kim turned around, waddling through the kitchen. No questions. No more worried looks. She simply led the Deputy through the house and into the laundry. A halfway bathroom sat at the far end of the room. Just a shower cubicle and a basin. 

“Don’t mind the gasoline smell. No pilots allowed upstairs without a shower first. Nick’s grandmother’s rule.” Kim offered, watching Cora zip for the cubicle and poke her head through the door.

“S’fine.”

Shampoo, conditioner, and soap, all in individual form. It was more than fine. The height of bathing luxury Cora had experienced in the past month was the communal County Jail showers and a used bar of soap. Even then, hot water lasted 2 minutes.

This was a god send. 

Cora leaned back out of the shower, finding Kim with an expectant look on her face. She paid it no mind, kicking off her boots and prompting the woman to leave with a twist of the handle to run the water. Still, Kim failed to move, even when the Deputy disappeared behind frosted glass fully clothed, wholly intent on avoiding the woman's scrutiny as soon as possible. Seconds passed. No movement detected. The Deputy glanced through the door, intent on telling the woman to buzz off altogether.

Any words she'd had at the ready seemed to die in her throat.

The blur of the glass obscured Kim’s finer features, melding her into just a blotch of colours. Olive skin. Black hair. The green of her air force shirt just a couple of shades away from Cora’s own uniform. The image flashed clean for just a second. Hudson, all bruised and teary-eyed. Then in the next, Kim again.

Cora averted her gaze, tearing the shampoo down from the shelf.

“You can go.” She mustered, eventually, after the heat had started running through the pipes.

“Pass your clothes over.” Came the reply. “I’ll wash ‘em-”

“-I’m already washing them-”

“-And **_then_** I’ll go.”

Silence. 

Then, Cora was tossing the drenched material over the door, and Kim was keeping her promise.

The blonde remained in the cubicle for something close to an hour; well after Kim had returned to run the dryer. Most of it had been spent on staring ahead at the tile wall, dissociating between tasks and half-regretting having sent Kim away in the first place.

The silence she’d been looking forward to all morning, it seemed, was no longer as pleasant as it had once been. 

She’d finally gotten a moment to be alone for the first time in what felt like weeks, and now, the solitude plagued her. She was alone. She was empty-handed. She’d failed. Hudson was still back in that bunker, and John Seed was still walking around alive with the knowledge that he’d cracked through some part of the solitary Deputy Stammos. That he’d gotten her talking after all. Earned her pity enough for her to neglect killing him. 

Christ. This wasn't like her. She needed sleep. She needed to bounce back.

As far as Cora could tell, there was no real progress to have come from the past 2 days. Only that the Peggies were now aware of their presence in Holland Valley. They'd taken a step backward if anything. 

Shower, sleep, food. No scheduled allowance for any more self pity. There was a town to lay siege to, and a resistance to gather. As soon as her brain was in proper working order, she needed to start formulating a new plan. 

_Kick ass and bring Joey home for Christmas._

No Joey, but at least she’d gotten a few good hits in before high-tailing it out of captivity. Next time, the enemy wouldn’t be so lucky. Next time, she’d complete her task and ensure John remained neutralised.

Cora shut off the water, wringing out her hair and scrunching at it on the way to the basin mirror, not bothering with a towel in her privacy. It was a good opportunity to give herself a once-over without anyone else getting to join in.

Her gaze settled on her steamed reflection.

No wonder Kim had looked so frightened. Her hair was a fucking disaster.

The black and purple bruising on her ribcage was nothing. The ugly thread of the stitches in her hand, barely existent. Scabbed, inflamed knuckles - inconsequential. 

The near-inch of dark regrowth stemming from her scalp, meanwhile, glared at her from the glass. It had grown out into a frazzled mess; platinum blonde turned brassy and dry with a nasty collection of split ends. No more curls. Her one vanity piece - _**wrecked.**_

Tugging the elastic from her wrist, Cora ran her fingers through her fringe and pulled her hair half-up into the bun she’d awoken with in the bunker. John’s handiwork, she’d guessed. Kept it out of her face. Probably advantageous.

...

Didn’t look half bad, either. Maybe the Baptist had some taste after all.

Cora proceeded to milk the time she'd been allowed in that bathroom for all it was worth, recovering what she could from her dishevelled appearance. Plucking brows and cleaning wounds and shamefully swiping a drop or two from Kim’s Bio-oil to claw back some of the shine to her locks. Sure, it was intended for stretch marks - and if one thought about it, she was technically stealing from a pregnant woman - but desperate times called for desperate measures. It made her feel somewhat closer to normal again. Certainly helped stabilise her thoughts.

Once her clothes had dried, the Deputy was dressed again and making her way back through the Rye house. On the way through the living room, she slowed by Kim; struggling to manoeuvre around her own belly in order to brew a coffee in the kitchen. They were both a similar height, and Kim had always had a slight frame. She looked positively dwarfed by her own bump.

The woman glanced at her.

“Gonna need a shirt, Deputy. Winter’s on the way.”

“Got a spare.” Cora answered, lingering, checking out the window. “No point in foregoing the uniform now that there’s no identity to hide. Peggies’ll see me coming a mile away, but maybe we’ll have an easier time with any locals out there.”

“It won’t go unappreciated. Folks will take pretty damn kindly to you stealing a whole sea plane back from John for us.” Kim shrugged. “You'll do fine, getting support. I know it’s not your usual style, being a good Samaritan and all - maybe it’s the Sarah Connor shit you’ve got going on nowadays, but your vibe’s different.”

Not the worst comment she’d received. Cora was well-aware that she’d bulked up over the past months. She’d take it.

“Thanks.”

“I meant the trauma shit - not the triceps shit.”

“I’m not traumatised.” She replied curtly, throwing a deliberate glance at her arms to make her point for the contrary.

Kim’s eyes near-rolled into the back of her skull. “Deputy, you were just in Hope County’s torture house.”

“Not everyone who gets tortured gets traumatised.” 

“All I’m saying is: you look worse for wear, and I know you’d probably look a hell of a lot better if you weren’t keeping at this. Y’know, stealing planes for pregnant women and going after Fall’s End.”

Cora scoffed. She thought she'd cleaned up pretty good. “Kimiko, please, do _**not**_ analyse me-“

“I don’t wanna fucking know what happened. I've heard enough anecdotes from everyone else who winds up marked. I'm gonna tell you, though: don’t feel too shitty about whatever happened down there. John has a system. He gets everyone and anyone to talk, one way or another. Whatever he made you think or do or say - you need to know that it wasn’t you.”

The Deputy turned silent at that, contemplating Kim's words despite her severe expression.

Kim must’ve judged it safe territory to continue. 

“It’s how he gets his hooks in you. He forms whatever opinion he has of you with that sin shit, and he convinces you to think the same way about yourself.”

“How many people has he done it to?”

“Far as I know, every one of his followers. I think it's an ownership thing. Brands folks like cattle when he decides he wants to keep them.” Kim answered. “He nabbed a few townsfolk back in the day. Gave Mary May hell for years.”

"Mary May?" Cora repeated, frowning.

Mary May. 

Shit. Mary May. She really should’ve paid more attention to the locals.

That morning, on her coffee run - when the bartender had been probing her for information. When she clamped shut about the Baptist. He’d been harassing her that whole time and Cora hadn’t even noticed. She’d needed help, and the Deputy had been too preoccupied with playing distance to do her job. 

She hadn't even made an effort.

Kim chewed her lip when Cora’s gaze returned to her, questioning. She registered it instantly. 

“We’ve had a lot of shit stolen, and John’s always made legal grabs for the airfield, but up until the Reaping started, we had it easier than others.” The woman answered. Then, after a moment’s thought: “Save for the voicemails. That guy can talk.”

That he could.

“Harassment and theft were always his calling cards.”

“I’m sure we would’ve had it worse if it hadn’t been for this glorified bladder weight.” Kim mentioned, tapping her teeth together. “Few years ago, he and Nick were thick as thieves. Not gonna lie - even I liked him. No amount of bleach will lift the knowledge that John Seed’s used our shower from my memory.” Kim clearly enjoyed Cora's shudder at that, mouth stretching into a grin. It subsided, however - turning wistful. “Up until now I’d thought that maybe he was taking it easy on us because they were pals once upon a time. Maybe part of me hoped for it. Nick isn’t that great at keeping track of things. For a while, it was nice to see them looking out for that shit head.”

“I’m familiar with your husband’s ineptitude.” Cora quipped, earning herself an icy look of warning. “How long ago was that?” 

“Years. Long before you got here. Must’ve been in our early 20’s.” Kim explained, slipping back out of her annoyance. “Back when the Peggies were just a single little church, raising money to keep schoolhouses open and helping Nick keep this place from going under. Too bad it was all bullshit in the end. Turns out psychopaths are real patient.”

The Deputy mulled over that for a moment. 

“Better that way.” She decided, earning an expectant look. “Less shades of grey.”

Less guilt about blowing faces off of skulls and filling chest cavities with lead-shot. Less of an instinct to stop when someone like John Seed begged for mercy.

…

No, wait - there it was. A twinge of guilt.

Easily rectified.

“So what happened?” She asked.

Kim shifted, busying herself with rifling through discarded envelopes on the counter. Not really looking at them - just keeping herself from looking at Cora. “It was slow. For a couple years, we didn’t hear much about the cult from John unless he was talking about Joseph. Don’t get me wrong; he was still a nasty fucker to Pastor Jerome and Mary May from the start. I wanna think Nick softened him up a little, but then one day, Peggies started moving to the county by the bus load, and suddenly John was _‘The Baptist’._ ” She explained, chewing her cheek. “Eventually, all he’d talk about was Eden’s Gate; about how he’d keep us safe when the world ended. Like he was being a good friend by moving us into some underground Cold War silo. I don’t know if his head was just too far up Joseph’s ass by that point or if he’d always been crazy, but John was too far gone by that point. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“That’s when you two became public enemy number one.”

“Then I got pregnant.”

“Oh.” Cora winced. “Think I heard the rest of that one from Sharky.”

“Sounds about right.” Kim snorted. 

The Deputy couldn’t help her curiosity.

“So, is it true?”

“Aside from my gynaecologist, Nick’s the only one who’s even **_seen_** my vagina. I know that’s disappointing to hear, but had I wanted any more than those two, I’d have given you my number when you asked for it.”

Panic flooded every crevice of the Deputy then.

“Kim, that was _**3 years ago.**_ I did **_not_** know you were married." She hissed, glancing at the door to ensure Nick hadn't entered the building. "What, is it my fault that I didn't know? You shave half your head! What straight woman does that? You know what? I'm dropping this. You _**know**_ I was talking the punch."

"Woah, now - I recall saying 'not interested', not 'straight'." A stifled laugh escaped Kim at Cora’s reddening face. “3 years and yet here you are, hosting shoot-outs on my front lawn like some cowboy and flexing your arms in the absence of my husband. You sure you didn’t go through all that shit over the past few days just to have the excuse to whip your shirt off?”

The blonde had fully begun to break out in hives over her neck and shoulders.

“I’m not - I **_didn’t -”_** Cora grit through teeth, scowling at the floor. “I’m not flexing.”

The sudden slouch in her posture did not aid her case. 

“Sorry, Dep. No fooling me. I’m onto you.”

“Did Nick break John’s nose or not?” Cora snarled. 

Kim no longer bothered to hide her amusement, leaning against the counter, shaking her head. “Get the fuck outta my kitchen and go get some rest.” She dismissed, waving the blonde away.

The noise that brewed in Cora’s throat was downright inhuman. Aggravated. Still, she did as ordered, shuffling to the front door, hyper-conscious not to stomp away.

“Dep!” 

Kim’s call halted her in her tracks, though she refused to grace the woman with her eye-contact a second time. Instead, she just waited for Kim to go on.

“You’re a little less of a asshole now that you’re our friend. Well - you’re still an asshole, but..." Kim bit her cheek, all too aware of how bashful the Deputy had grown. Apparently she couldn't resist rubbing it in. "You're more fun now.”

 _'I’m not your friend'_ instinctually rang through Cora’s mind, eyes rolling back so hard into her skull that they ached. She just couldn’t manage to guide the words from her brain to her mouth, though. 

This was not like her.

 _'New schedule,'_ she thought. _'Sleep. Food. Draw up a plan. Come back to the house later to clarify.'_

  
  


* * *

Try as Cora might, rest did not come easily. Something about the combination of being wedged into the corner of a leather couch with a 60lb dog on her chest, daylight glaring through her eyelids, and the absolute disregard for privacy from the cultist hollering incessantly from the radio on the coffee table beside her just wasn't helping.

In the end, she lay pretending to sleep until stormclouds drifted overhead, darkening the room with the first rain of the season. It became a little easier when Sharky joined her, as much as she detested to admit it - splaying himself over the other end of the couch and snoring in a matter of minutes. A good indication that it was actually safe to rest.

A warm ally. The pitter-patter of raindrops on a tin roof. Boomer's kibble breath on her face. 

Exhaustion, and the peace that accompanied it, eventually overtook. They were all safe for now, and the recovery was well-deserved given that no one had gotten any shut-eye since leaving the Henbane. As time wore on, the rest of the team were quieter than usual. Snoozing in their own seats, quietly complaining about the chilly air every so often. Even John’s radio calls slowed. Maybe even the enemy grew drowsy, too - what with the late night and the sleepy weather. And probably a little blood loss.

Cora found herself adequately at peace as time wore on. Boomer was practically a warm blanket, and once Sharky had been sleeping for long enough (and no one seemed to be looking), she deemed it okay to tuck her feet under the man’s rump.

Her hypervigilance began to ease. Soon enough, her eyes stayed closed.

The Deputy slept through the afternoon, unbothered by dreams once her unconscious brain registered that it was now indeed time to direct 100% of its efforts to recuperation. She was finally safe, and the rain beyond the hangar and the presence of those she’d come to trust over the past weeks made for a new, fuzzier feeling of comfort that she wasn’t familiar with. 

Until the smash of glass on concrete flooring tore at her ears, at least; then she was shooting up out of the couch to scramble for her gun, launching Boomer out of her lap in the process.

“You woke her, moron!” Jess barked, unseen.

“Shit - sorry Deputy!” Hurk hollered right after.

It took Cora a long moment to make sense of the world. She was overheated, damp with sweat, and the post-nap cottonmouth was near-unbearable.

The radio on the coffee table stirred with static. Quietly, John Seed’s voice read through bible verses as if he were reading a bed-time story. 

_”... When the scribes of the Pharisees saw that He was eating with the sinners and tax collectors, they said to His disciples, “Why is He eating with tax collectors and sinners?” And hearing this , Jesus said to them, “ It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick; I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners...”_

Tragically, it didn't seem like he'd be stopping any time soon.

She elected to ignore him in favour of acquainting herself with normalcy again.

It was dark out - meaning she must’ve slept somewhere over 10 hours. Sharky had disappeared from his place at her feet. Everyone had abandoned their resting spots in favour of the bar, where Hurk was now attempting to pour a particularly icy drink into a particularly narrow glass. They’d launched right back into their usual raucous volume, whooping and hollering and bickering. At some point during the Deputy’s slumber, Nick had re-joined them, and despite her general distaste for the man, Cora had to admit that he fit in well amongst the chaos. 

Maybe it was the prospect of having her thirst quenched, but the sight of her team passing around drinks was a pleasant sight. Pleasant enough that she allowed the flaring temper at being awoken so rudely to drift away.

With an apologetic pat, Cora passed her indignant hound while he assumed the warm patch she’d left on the couch, and made for her bag, tugging out the uniform Sheriff Whitehorse had given her.

Sharky looked over his shoulder when Cora pulled up beside him, buttoning the shirt one-handed. There was something affirmative in his expression when she attempted to start tucking, as if he’d been waiting for her to do so.

“What?” She growled, nudging the man with her elbow and narrowing her eyes at the thoughtful look he returned. 

“Nothin’. Good seein’ you haven’t lost your usual habits is all.”

“Sharky, it’s been a _ **day.”**_

Hurk slid what looked like an attempted margarita in a highball glass in front of Cora, then. It was sticky to touch, but the Deputy became aware of just how parched she was as soon as the drink touched her lips. Ignoring the brainfreeze that followed, she threw back as much as she could fit in her mouth, earning a grimace from both her best men. 

“Should probably have some water or somethin’ before you party, amigo.”

Cora fixed Hurk with a hard look. “It’s been a **_shitty_** day.”

_”Deputy, I see lights on at the airport.”_

She paused at hearing her own address like that, checking over her shoulder to make sure the radio hadn’t manifested the Baptist into the room with them. John must’ve grown tired of reading after all.

_”You’re not wasting your head-start, are you?”_

Prick.

Cora turned back to the team, slouching over her drink. “How long’s he been at it?”

“All fuckin’ day.” Jess grumbled from beneath her hood. “Quieted down for a couple of hours, but he came back stronger than ever.”

“Probably got that stress diarrhoea.”

**_“Sharky.”_ **

“What? It’s a thing. Joseph’s probably gonna whoop his ass after learning you got out. I’d get nervous shits too if I was under that pressure.”

“If he can see the lights from where he is - and if he isn’t bluffing - he’s likely at his ranch.” Cora observed, attempting to steer the conversation back on track.

Jess looked at her. “Reckon he’ll come after us with that plane of his?”

Cora shook her head. “No. It’s damaged. So’s he. Neither of them should be in good enough shape to fly, yet. I'd say he's recuperating.” She turned quiet for a moment, slurping absently at the brim of her glass before the ensuing silence pulled her attention back up. Everyone was looking at her. Expectant.

“He smashed up my hand, so I paid him back.” She clarified.

“Which hand?” Sharky asked.

Cora held up her right; bruised and stitched. “This one.”

“ _ **His**_ hand, idiot.”

“Oh, right.”

“Oh, right as in, okay? Or oh, right as in, his right hand?”

“Right _**hand!**_ It was his right hand! Christ.” Cora snapped. “If it feels anything like mine, he probably can’t use it. No planes, for now.”

Sharky gave an enthusiastic nod at that. For a moment, Cora expected congratulations, given the appreciative looks that rippled through the rest of the team.

“So John wipes with his right hand-”

“I will happily maul you.” Jess bit. 

“Fine.” Sharky grumbled, petulant. 

It took him all of 10 seconds to start up again.

“Y’know how much that’d suck, though? Man, like, I broke my arm quad-biking one time. Fractured a couple fingers. Had to get a splint and everything. Worst part? I had to learn to jack off with my non-dominant hand for 6 whole weeks-”

The arsonist never finished his story, instead crying out when Jess yanked at his earlobe, hard. While the two of them devolved into their squabbling, Adelaide leaned across the counter, sliding a hand over Cora’s wrist to get her attention. 

She didn’t immediately pull away. Not until Adelaide seemed to remember who she was talking to and relinquished her hold. 

“Maybe that’s what he’s doing.” The woman suggested, a grin spreading across her face when Cora winced, ears flooding crimson and retreating into her shirt collar like a turtle taking refuge in its shell. _**“Learning.”**_

“Or we could not broach that subject again.” The Deputy warned, already fighting to keep the memory of John Seed on the floor from creeping up out of her subconscious. It had been a fight; one desperate hell of a struggle, but there was no way she could relay the story of her escape without Adelaide misinterpreting something. She wouldn’t understand that John mistakenly touched her mouth on the way to strangling her with his bare hands. She wouldn’t let the Deputy live down the topics of her interrogation, despite the real hostility behind John’s seemingly flirtatious questioning. 

She’d put Cora under the fucking microscope for playing along. For doing so naturally. For sparing herself a few moments to indulge in him helpless on the floor. 

Adelaide couldn’t find out. 

“I find it odd, is all.” The woman in question drawled with a defensive little shrug. “I ain’t never heard of a Seed giving someone a head start. John’s strung folks up just for lookin’ at him wrong. After what we did-”

“Don’t read into it, Adelaide.” Cora clipped.

“He had you all to himself for hours.”

“Quit it.”

“The door was left wide open. He must’ve wanted you to escape for one reason or another. All day, he’s been on that radio - and he’s only been talking to **_you.”_**

“I’m not listening.”

“Sweetheart,” Adelaide was rapping her fingers on the counter now, eyeing Cora, painted lips still curled and slinking closer, “I think John Seed wants to fuck you.”

All conversation around the bar ceased. Stunned silence ensued. 

The Deputy sat still, glaring into the middle distance.

There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't wholeheartedly regret joining the Resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang recuperates, and Cora struggles to deal with her growing conscience. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Jacob finds himself caught between both his brothers' ulterior motives.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, you can come yell at me on tumblr: baeogorath.tumblr.com


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